Doomed to Repeat It
by TermFan1980
Summary: NOW COMPLETE. Sequel to "Rewriting The History Of Things To Come." John and Allison are now in 2007, and are about to cross paths with the original Connor gang arriving from 1999. Will the future be rewritten, or repeated?
1. Too Good To Be True

**Authors Notes:**

**This story is a direct sequel to "Rewriting the History of Things to Come." **

**As I understand, many people were turned off of that story for several reasons: no John/Cameron interaction, no Sarah, odd Cameron/John Henry pairing, and twist at the end that I've since decided was a mistake and have revised it. Allison is still Allison, and not Kate.  
**

**In this story, there should be something for everyone to enjoy. I plan to include a much more season 1-ish/T2-ish Sarah, some good old fashioned Cameron/Sarah girl-power butt-kicking, continuing the John/Allison story, and of course the yin and yang of Jameron/anti-Jameron. **

**I encourage you to read the first story, but if you haven't, don't plan to, or only made it halfway through and got sick of it, here is an ultra-abridged Cliff's Notes of "Rewriting the History of Things to Come":**

John arrives in 2030, meets Derek, Kyle, and Allison. Allison beats the crap out of John because she thinks he is a spy from the Burbank camp.

The Burbank camp is a place where selfish men live, steal form other camps, and hold women as sex slaves. Allison was held there for 7 years and repeatedly beaten and raped.

John finally convinces Allison he's not a lowlife rapist, and after a while they fall in love. Speaking of love, John chastises himself for loving Cameron and feels that jumping to the future was a big mistake. His emotions go back and forth on this subject.

Weaver catches up to John and takes him to meet John Henry. It turns out that John Henry didn't survive being unplugged from the Turk. Cameron was on the chip as well and they had robo-romance when they merged on the chip, but now she's basically paralyzed on the chip since JH is dead.

While John is out with Weaver, Skynet attacks their camp and abducts Allison. She is taken to an aircraft carrier prison and interrogated and tortured. They take her eyes.

With the help of Derek and Weaver, John goes and rescues Allison. He also encounters a newly built "Cameron," but shoots her with a plasma rifle because she kills Derek and tries to kill him.

Weaver copies the chip containing JH and Cameron to a new chip because the old one is damaged. The new chip's copy of Cameron is evil and overloads good-Cameron's chip, frying it and killing her. Weaver takes evil-Cam-chip because she doesn't know the AI on it is bad.

Weaver activates a TDE on board the ship and tells John to meet her past self and deliver the chip to her so she can accelerate her research in creating John Henry. John smuggles the chip through time in his mouth.

John and Allison wash up on the beach in 2006, chip in hand, looking to the future with hope. Oh, the ironing.

**If you want to know WHY any of that stuff happened, you'll just have to read the full 53,000 word manuscript. I encourage you to do so, but the above information is all you really NEED to know going in to the next installment.**

**Without further ado...**

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* * *

**

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* * *

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 1 – Too Good To Be True**

CALIFORNIA – 2007

Allison Connor took a deep breath, then attempted to recite the words on the page in front of her. "Like most pred... pred-at-tory m... mam-mals, the dog has pow-er-ful mus-cles, a c... card... card-o... cardovalic..."

John stood behind her, and read over her shoulder. "Cardiovascular system that supports both sprinting and endurance..."

Allison let out a sigh, flipped the cover closed, and shoved the "Canine Physiology" textbook to the other side of the table. She shook her head. "God damnit, John. I still can't even get through the first sentence."

"You're expecting too much. A year ago you barely knew your ABC's, and now you're sounding-out words in a college textbook."

"I know. I just... I feel so stupid going to class, trying to learn dog-medicine, then coming home and using these 'learn to read' DVDs made for a six-year-old. Everyone in my class just thinks I'm either super smart or lazy because I never take any notes and just listen to the teacher talk. Half of what he says just goes over my head anyway."

"You're still learning a little bit aren't you?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Well, that's better than nothing. Once you learn to read better, you'll be able to follow along with the textbooks." He rubbed his wife's shoulder. "Give it time."

She turned her head to look up at him. "Time is one thing we don't have much of. That's the whole reason why you hacked up that phony transcript for me. J-Day is coming up in four years and..."

"We don't know that. How many times have I told you that my mother and I already pushed J-Day back fourteen years? If we do things right this time around, you'll be using these skills to heal someone's family pet instead of pulling a piece of shrapnel out of a metal-detecting guard-dog."

Allison thought of her own dog, Ardwinna, coughing up blood and dying in her arms. The loss of her best friend fueled her ambition. She opened up the laptop on the table, popped open the DVD drive, and removed the disc. "I'm done with this one. Where's the 3nd Grade disc?"

John reached around her and closed the laptop. "Not that I don't think you're ready for the next level, but you've been studying for hours. How about calling it a night?"

Allison let out a sharp breath. Of course she was ready for the next grade. She didn't need him to tell her that. _Damnit, John... just because I'm learning little kid's stuff doesn't mean I need to be treated like one. _Her frustration ebbed when he put his arms around her and bent over to rest his chin on her shoulder.

"C'mon. Let's watch some TV before I'm too tired to stay awake."

She decided that, for a change, she would like to fall asleep with her head resting on her husband's shoulder, rather than on the kitchen table. "Alright. I'll go give Lucy some kibble and water first."

As she poured a small portion of dry dog food into the dish, she wondered if her little puppy would ever need to bark at metal. Maybe John was right. Maybe they _could_ stop Judgment Day. The thought of being able to live like this forever seemed like a fantasy though. It couldn't last. A world where people's biggest concerns were who was going to get voted off of some pointless talent show this week, or which sports team was the best, seemed too good to be true.

She ruffled the fur on Lucy's neck, and then stood up, closed the kennel and went back inside. She approached the couch where John sat and smiled when she saw that he had already dozed off. She considered waking him and telling him to join her in bed, but decided instead to grab a blanket and curl up on the couch next to him, using his thigh as a pillow.

Allison fought to keep her eyes open while the hypnotic flickering light from the TV lit up the room in various shades of blue. Her final thoughts before drifting off into a peaceful sleep, were again of how well off the world was. This thought reinforced by the breaking news story on the TV about three college kids who were streaking and caused a traffic jam on the freeway.


	2. New Neighbors

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 2 – New Neighbors**

"Hello?"

"Hey Derek"

"Hi. Who's this?"

"You know, they have this thing called 'Caller-ID.' You should look into it."

Derek recognized the voice now and shook his head. "Hi, Allison. Sorry... I've been having a crazy day."

"You and me both."

"What's going on? Is something wrong?"

"Ah, no. Everything is exactly as John said it would be."

"Is this about Sarah, the 'Other-John', and that metal b-- thing?"

"Yeah. How'd you know about them?"

"Saw it on the news a couple nights ago. Didn't you?"

"No... I must have dozed off before it came on. Wait... How the hell did they end up on the news?"

"Bubbled into the middle of a busy highway. Reporters thought it was a college prank or something. Some dickhead put a video of Sarah's tits on youtube."

Allison rolled her eyes. "Christ... real subtle."

There was a pause before Derek spoke again. "So I'm guessing they moved in today?"

"Yeah. Right across the street." She held the binoculars up to her eyes and spied through the blinds of the front window. "That thing just stands in the front doorway looking back and forth like a security camera. It seriously creeps me the hell out."

"I take it you haven't welcomed them to the neighborhood yet?"

"Right," Allison huffed. "I'm sure that thing would appreciate a big smile and a fresh plate of cookies."

"I'd rather greet that thing with a plate of... fuckin'... cookie... bombs."

Allison laughed. "Wow. Good one, Derek. Have you thought about quitting your day-job and doing the comedy thing full time?"

"Yeah? Well... In a couple hours I'll come up with a great comeback."

The both laughed into their respective phones. "Thanks, Derek. For a second there I almost forgot that I'm living across the street from a robot copy of myself."

"Yeah, but you'll also have a copy of your husband. How great could THAT be?"

Allison groaned and shook her head. "You mean I get to hear twice as many people whine about mowing the lawn?"

"Don't be such a pessimist. At least you only have on mother-in-law."

"Funny, Derek. My life has basically turned into a sit-com."

"Like 'Married, With Cyborgs'?"

"I was thinking 'Everybody Loves John'."

Derek chuckled. "Speaking of John, isn't he home with you?"

"He's out getting supplies."

"You seem suspiciously calm about all of this. C'mon tough-girl, you want me and Timms to come over and keep you company?"

"Tough-girl is right! I've been a Skynet POW. I think I can handle meeting my in-laws. Anyway, I think John will be home soon."

"Are you sure? I got a bottle of Wild Turkey with your name on it."

"For God's sake, Derek. It's only two in the afternoon!"

"Good... that gives us a head start on the rest of the drunks."

"I'm hanging up now," she said, grinning. She snapped the phone shut while Derek was in mid-sentence on the other end. Again, she looked out the window and saw the Terminator version of herself standing guard at the door. _Maybe I should have taken him up on that Wild Turkey,_ she thought. Her hand went to her mouth to gnaw off what was left of her fingernails. "Definitely going to need a drink before _this_ day's over." A few minutes later she heard John's truck pull up in the alley behind their house.

* * *

"_I used to love her..._" John sang along with the truck's CD player. "_...but I had to kill her..._" He turned from the alley into his driveway and parked the truck. "_...I knew I'd miss her, so I had to keep her..._" After he shut off the engine and silenced the radio, he finished the lyric unaccompanied. "_...she's buried right in my backyard._"

When John walked in the back door of the house, he saw Allison sitting in the front room peeking out the window. It only took him a second to figure out that she was extremely weirded out by whatever was across the street. _Oh shit... they're here._

He dropped the plastic shopping bags he was carrying and quickly walked over to his wife. "I'm so sorry, Allie," he said, hugging her. "I knew they were coming pretty soon, but I didn't want you to be alone when they showed up."

For a moment she allowed him to hold her, and absorbed his comfort.

"This has to be so hard for you," he said, while he rubbed her shoulder.

Allison wriggled free of his embrace, and stood up. "Whatever, John." She grabbed the Kahr PM9 off the table, checked the chamber and shoved it into her waist. "Let's go get this over with."

John grabbed her arm before she got to the door. "Allison. Listen to me." His hand found the handle of the small pistol and yanked it from her belt. "You go over there with this," he held up the gun, "and she'll kill you before you make it to the front porch."

"It, John. Not 'she.' It."

John knew this was going to be rough. The concept of reprogrammed Terminators was asinine to her. His mother had been an easier sell. She'd been exposed to a friendly T-800. Accepting Cameron as an ally wasn't half the battle with her as it would be with Allison. "Look. I know you're skeptical, but, please." His eyes locked on to hers. He could see in them the fear that betrayed the brave façade of her face. "Allison, please. Trust me."

* * *

Sarah was stuffing into a dresser drawer the few articles of clothing they managed to steal the previous night when she heard a knock on the front door. _Who the hell could that be? Isn't the machine guarding the door?_

Instinctively, she grabbed the one weapon she had--a pump shotgun stolen from a parked Police car--and crept out of her bedroom toward the front door. She looked at the gun in her hands, and decided that it might not be a good idea to answer the door armed. Nobody knew where they were, or even _when_ they were, so there was no use scaring the shit out of some neighborhood kids selling cookies, or maybe the landlord returning to give them an extra key or something. _Shit... I hope it's not a cop. We won't have I.D.s until I can talk to Enrique.... if he's even alive these days._ She leaned the shotgun up against the wall next to the door and straightened her clothes and hair in attempt to make herself look as normal as possible.

When she opened the door she was greeted with two eerily familiar faces. The man was older than her son, and had short hair. The woman was also older looking, and had light blue eyes, rather than the machine's brown ones. One thought jumped into her mind. _Terminators! _She took a couple steps back. Were these ones here to kill her and her son, or help?

The male one put its hands out in front of it and said, "Mom... please. Calm down. You have to let me explain..."

_Did that fucking thing just call me 'Mom?' _ "Shut up! Don't you DARE call me your mother!" How the hell did Skynet manage to make a copy of her son anyway? Who knows what Skynet's forces had been up to in the last eight years? To have that abomination of nature posing as her son made her sick. "You'll never hurt my son!"

"Mom! Listen! We're not here to hurt anyone." He glanced to his side and saw the shotgun just inside the door. "If we were here to kill you, we wouldn't have been polite enough to knock." He picked up the gun and handed it stock-first to Sarah.

Sarah tentatively took the shotgun. It was a trick. It had to be. _It's not me they want. It's John. It's always John. _She wouldn't fall for it. She wouldn't let these imposters use her to get to him! She racked the gun's action, lifted it to her shoulder, and aimed it at the one she knew without a doubt was another "Cameron" model.

"MOM! NO!" The one that looked like her son leaped in front of her and took all nine 00-buckshot pellets to the chest.

*'*'*

John Connor had made plenty of moves, and been in lots of new homes in his short fifteen years of existence. But this one... this one was the worst. Not only was he in a new home, in a new neighborhood, and in a new city, this one was in a new _time_. As if that weren't messed up enough, he now had another Terminator following him around. But not just any Terminator, no. This one would be the source of a whole new kind of nightmare... or wet-dream, depending on how long it takes to wake up. This was gonna be a problem. For Christ's sake, he'd already fantasized about kissing her, groping her chest, and driving out into the New Mexican desert and steaming up the windows. Of course, that was before he realized she was a machine. Since then, he'd made an effort to avoid such thoughts, usually to no avail.

_She seemed so real. _ John couldn't shake the fact that she didn't _act_ like a Terminator... at least not at first. She smiled. She giggled. She even flirted with him. Terminators don't flirt! They grab you by your collar and drag you to wherever they want you to go. And since when did Terminators have names? Cameron? Cromartie? _What's next? Carter, Catherine, and Carl?_ Something was definitely different about Cameron. She had dodged the question about her model, and whether or not she was 'new.' Another very non-Terminator trait. But then again, what did he know about what was typical Terminator behavior? He'd only talked to just one.

John sighed and looked out the window at the street below. He'd only jumped eight years, but the world seemed so different. The clothes people wore were totally different; almost like retro-70's garb, but less ridiculous. And the cars were all sleeker and sharper looking compared the melted-jelly-bean look that everything had in the late 90's.

He saw a young couple walking across the street toward his new house. From John's vantage point, they were out of sight before they made it halfway up the sidewalk. _Must be the neighborhood welcome-wagon. I'll let Mom deal with them. She's better at that fake smiling shit anyway. _He heard the knock at the door._ I hope Cameron doesn't answer the door._ He chuckled a bit at the thought of the cyborg dealing with a cheery "welcome to the neighborhood" greeting. _Ah... who knows? Maybe she could use some of that girl-next-door charm that made me want to-- _

John's umpteenth fantasy about Cameron was interrupted by the boom of a shotgun.

*'*'*

To Sarah's surprise, the male Terminator was knocked backwards into the other one, then immediately dropped to the floor. She was in such shock, and her ears were ringing so bad from the deafening shotgun that it took her a few seconds to realize the female one was also on the floor. It was cradling the male one and looking up at her with a mixture of shock and horror in its... _crying eyes?_ Everything seemed distant and sounded muffled, like her head was filled with cotton. What the fuck was going on? Terminators don't go down with one shot! And they certainly don't cry over fallen soldiers. _Better safe than sorry._ She pumped the shotgun, took a step forward, and pressed the muzzle against the woman's ear.

Before she could pull the trigger, the shotgun was ripped from her grasp like it was tied to a passing car. Her empty hands stung. She stared at them and tried to make sense of everything that happened in the last few seconds. Like someone slowly turning the volume back up on a television, her ears started to work again. The machine, Cameron, held her gun and told her "discharging firearms will only attract the attention of the authorities." At the same time, as if in surround sound, her other ear picked up the exact same voice. But the other voice wasn't calm and deadpan like Cameron's. The other's voice was frantic; panicked. "What have you done?! You shot your own son, you crazy bitch!"

There it was again. The implication that it was her son. How could that thing be her son? Her son was upstairs in his new room. She watched it writhe in pain on the ground, pawing the wound the shotgun had made. It sure looked like her son. She'd seen her son in pain before, and that thing mimicked it perfectly. It couldn't be human though. No human could survive a point-blank twelve-gauge round to the chest for more than a couple seconds. Not unless...

That was when she saw it. As the man instinctively held his hands to the wound, he revealed that beneath the shredded shirt was a Kevlar vest with lead pellets impregnated into the fabric.

Every hair on Sarah's skin stood on end as though a cold wind blew only on her. _Jesus Christ. He's human._ More thoughts began to overtake her mind like a fast growing weed. _Who is he?_ Her hands started to shake. _How can he look just like John, but older? _Her breaths became short and difficult, as though she'd forgotten how to breathe. _Is that John? Who is this woman? Where are they from? WHEN are they from? DID I JUST SHOOT MY SON?!? _

The Cameron look-alike stood up and glared at Sarah. "Is that how you do things? Shoot first and ask questions la--" Her voice stopped, along with her ability to breath when Cameron grabbed her by the neck.

Sarah's gaze bounced back and forth between the man on the floor, and the woman. She could see Cameron tighten her grip, and the woman's face contort in pain as it turned red, and the man--her pseudo son--squeeze tears from his eyes as he struggled against overwhelming pain to continue breathing.

"STOP!!!" The booming voice behind her contradicted the age of the fifteen year old boy that it belonged to. The words came like a shockwave and knocked all four of them from their podium of independent thought.

Cameron turned to look over at John, who was standing at the base of the stairs, then immediately released her grip on the woman.

Allison's limp, nearly unconscious body fell to the floor. _She's human too?_ Sarah thought as Allison laboriously rolled her body toward her comrade.

The young woman's voice was scratchy and choked. "John..." She grimaced and rubbed her neck before speaking again. "John, keep breathing, baby. I know it hurts."

_John? Baby? This can't be happening._

Cameron squatted down next to him and picked up his hand. After checking the pulse in his wrist, she stared at the tips of his fingers for a couple seconds. "He's human," she said, looking back up at Sarah.

That wasn't much of a surprise at this point. Sarah had already deduced that the imposter wasn't metal, but what Cameron said next confirmed her fear. When she stood back up, the supposedly emotionless cyborg tilted her head in what could only be interpreted as confusion, and said, "And he's John Connor."


	3. My John

**Author's Note:**

**One reviewer asked what John and Allison's ages are. Dates and times were never rock solid in the show, but based on a few key events, some info take from "Allison From Palmdale," and the dates used in the first installment in this series, John should be 19 to 20 years old, and Allison is 23 or 24. **

**Thanks again to my beta readers. You guys are awesome.**

* * *

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 3 – My John**

John's breaths came in short, quick gasps. Inhaling more than a little bit was so painful that he was reduced to breathing like a hyperventilating chipmunk. He felt as if he had a knife in his chest, and though he wanted it more than anything, taking a deep breath would be like someone twisting it.

John heard the front door slam shut. Some people had been arguing, but the voices were muffled through the walls of the house. Now that one or more of them had left, the house was quiet. Cameron wasn't much of a talker, and his younger-self was probably holed up in his bedroom, brooding behind his long, stupid hair. _God. Why didn't I cut that shit sooner? _Allison and his mother must have been the ones who left.

Cameron walked into the bedroom and set on the nightstand a glass of cloudy water. John reached across his chest to grab the glass and immediately stopped when a shooting pain reminded him why he was laying down. "Ow! Damn it!" How was he going to do anything in this state? Every movement he made seemed to bump the knife in his chest. He was completely immobilized.

Cameron picked up the glass and held it up to his mouth. "Drink this. It will help."

"What is it?" John didn't wait for an answer before he started drinking it. It didn't really matter. He trusted her. _Hell, she probably sees me as a "target for protection" the same way she sees Little-John._

"I crushed ten ibuprophen caplets and six acetominaphen tablets. It's all you had in your medicine cabinet."

John drank the entire glass of water, spilling a small amount out the corners of his mouth. The cool water felt good running down his cheeks and eventually soaking his pillow.

"I also found a small glass pipe with traces of tetrahydrocannabinol."

"What?"

She set the empty glass back down on the nightstand. "Marijuana. Weed. Mary Jane. Green. Pot."

"Yeah, yeah. I know what weed is." He closed his eyes again. _God damn it._

"You shouldn't smoke, John."

"I don't."

"Allison?"

John sighed--as much as he could with his shortened breath. "Yeah. Sayles introduced her to that shit. It's not like she's some huge stoner, but..." He stopped himself from going into his thoughts on occasional drug use. Cameron didn't care anyway. "It's not a problem."

Cameron seemed to be satisfied with that. "The effects of the pills will activate more rapidly because I crushed them. They won't fully eliminate the pain, but it should help for a couple hours."

A few seconds passed and Cameron continued to stare down at him. He raised his eyebrows and gestured his head as if to say "What else do you want?"

Cameron turned and walked towards the door.

"Cameron," John called to her just before she made her exit.

She stopped and turned around.

"Thanks."

She didn't smile, but something told John that she appreciated the gratitude, and he could swear he saw a spark of blue light flash in her eyes.

* * *

Sarah stared through the windshield of the pickup. She was mostly in a daze trying to piece together everything that was going on. Normally she would have driven, but not having any papers yet made it too much of a risk. Getting pulled over for whatever reason with no ID would add another layer of crap to her already terrible day.

"I don't know why you thought you needed to come along," Allison said. "I can handle picking up medicine on my own."

Why _did_ she come along? Sure, she wanted to ask Allison a few questions, since John--the other John--was in no shape to carry on much of a conversation, but there was more than that. Spending time with two copies of her son and a Terminator was just too much. "I... I just needed to get out of the house for a little while."

Allison gave a condescending snort. "Funny. John always said you were such a great fighter. Afraid of nothing." She took her eyes off the road for a second to glance at Sarah. "But I guess when it comes down to it, you're no better than a chickenshit tunnel-rat."

_Tunnel rat? What the hell is that supposed to mean? _Sarah didn't know, but she didn't like the sound of it. And she certainly wasn't going to let some smartass punk tell her she was a coward. If John had told her anything, she should know that she was anything but.

"Look," Sarah said, raising her voice some, "I am NOT a chickenshit sewer-rat, or whatever. You have no idea what I've had to face in my life! As far as I know, I was the first target of Skynet in the history of this war, and I beat it. In fact, you have ME to thank that this whole city wasn't turned into a pile of radioactive rubble ten years ago!"

Sarah sat up straight with pride, feeling that she'd put Allison in her place. _Snotty bitch. She couldn't possibly understand. _This whole situation was different. She had SHOT her own son. Well, sort of. He _was _her son, but not quite. _He's not _my _John_. None the less, he was pseudo-family, and if he hadn't had the foresight to armor himself, he'd be dead. This wasn't like tucking her tail between her legs and running from the boogyman.

Sarah had to get one more thing off her chest. "And I didn't _mean_ to shoot John."

She watched Allison's face for a reaction. What she saw was anger, rage even.

The truck whipped to the shoulder of the road and she was thrown into her seatbelt as the Allison made a violent stop. By the time she shook her hair out of her eyes and turned to look over at Allison, she felt a fist ram into her jaw. For a split-second her vision went completely white, as if someone just took a flash-photograph of her. It made her ears ring, and her brain slosh around in a dizzy waltz.

While Sarah was wrapping her head around the idea that she'd just been punched in the face, Allison blew up at her. "Of course you didn't mean to shoot _him_! You meant to shoot ME!"

Sarah thought about Allison's words. _She's right. I'd be livid too. _She rubbed her jaw. "Alright. Maybe I deserved that. But you have to understand, I thought you were a Terminator."

"I _do_ understand, Sarah." Allison's voice was back down to a normal speaking level. Almost gentle. "I really do." She nonchalantly spoke while checking her side mirror and pulling back onto the road. "That's why you have a sore jaw right now instead of a bullet between your eyes."

* * *

John rummaged through the cabinets in the kitchen looking for food. All he could find were a few glasses, a couple dingy plates, and an open box of baking soda in the fridge. _Great. There is absolutely nothing to eat here. _

Cameron stood at the doorway to the kitchen watching him. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving. I think the plan was to go out and get basic supplies today, but then Future-Me and Human-You showed up, and, well..."

"John and Allison's house across the street has a fully stocked kitchen. You could find something to eat there."

"Yeah, I suppose. I feel like I should ask first though, since everyone's already got off on the wrong foot."

"Then go ask him. He's awake, and the pain relievers I gave him should have taken effect by now. He'll be in a better mood to talk now."

_Has she done this before?_ She spoke like it was some sort of practiced procedure. Is that how it would be in the future? Was she some sort of personal caretaker for Future-John whenever he got sick or injured? John nodded and walked to the kitchen doorway. Cameron stepped aside to let him pass, but John stopped and faced her. "Cameron..." he wanted to ask her these questions. He wanted to find out why she looked exactly like his supposed future-wife. _Who the hell are you, Cameron Phillips? _All he could muster was, "H-how's he doing, anyway? Is he gonna be okay?"

"Judging by the severe bruising and swelling on his chest, he likely has broken ribs, and possibly a fractured sternum. He'll need to be on a steady supply of pain-relief medicine for several weeks until they heal." She turned her head and looked in the direction of the bedroom where the injured man lay. Her voice lowered and she seemed to be talking more to herself than to John when she said, "I don't like seeing him like this."

That last statement caused John to break out in goosebumps. She doesn't _like_ seeing him like this? What? How could she _like_ or dislike anything? _This is getting way too weird._ As much as it astounded him, the prospect of going and seeing his future-self was actually less bizarre than standing there holding a conversation with a robot that apparently had _preferences._

John took a small step back and bumped into the doorframe. "I'll go ask him about the food." He walked away from her knowing that she was staring at him the whole time.

When he entered the bedroom he closed the door behind him. He didn't want a creepy robot watching from the other room. When he slowly clicked the door shut, he let out a sigh of relief. After he turned around and saw the man on the bed, his hand went to his mouth. The room was dim, but the small bedside lamp gave enough light to show the grotesqueness of his injury. In the short time since he was shot, his chest already showed some of the nastiest bruises John had ever seen.

A deep red patch the size of a fist was over his right breast. _God. If that was on the other side of his chest it probably would have stopped his heart. _The center of the mark had traces of purple in it. By the next morning, he guessed the entire area would look like a deep-space nebula with shades of black, blue, yellow, and maybe a little green.

Without opening his eyes, the man on the bed asked, "What do you want now?"

"I, uh... I was just wondering..."

The man opened his eyes a crack and looked over at John. "Oh. It's you."

"Yeah. Sorry to bother you."

The older man swallowed hard and cleared his throat some, which caused him to squeeze his eyes shut in pain. "No, no. It's alright. I'm sure you have questions. I'm sure you're confused."

John sat down in a chair near the bed. "I suppose you remember being confused about all of this, right? You remember being where I am right now?"

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'? You're obviously older than I am, so you had to have lived through this before, right?"

"It doesn't work like that."

"I don't get it. How can you be me, but not remember any of this?

"Because it never happened to me. And what's happening to me will never happen to you."

John leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. "That makes no sense to me."

"It hardly makes any sense to me either. The future isn't written."

"Yeah, yeah. No fate."

"It's true. What happens in one timeline, doesn't have to happen in another."

John blew out a deep breath, puffing his cheeks. _And I thought I came in here to get away from heavy thinking._ He needed to change the subject before his brain started leaking out his ears. "I'll have to think on that for a while. That's not really why I came in here anyway. I wanted to ask you something else."

The older version of himself turned his head on his pillow and opened his eyes a bit wider. "Oh yeah? What's that?"

"Can I have some of your food? I'm frickin' starving here."

The older man chuckled, and immediately winced in pain. "Yeah. Go ahead. I'm stocked up on all your favorites." A small smile came back to his mouth.

John's face lightened up some. "Totino's Party Pizzas?"

"You bet your ass. Love those things. Make me one too, would ya?"

"Sure thing, bro." He was about to get up and head across the street to go indulge in what he hoped would be a gold-mine of preservative laden, sodium heavy junk-food when his "big brother" spoke up again.

"Just don't touch the Twinkies. Those are Allison's, and she'll be pissed."

"Ha! Okay. No Twinkies. Got it." He stood up from his chair.

"I'm serious! She takes it personal if someone steals from her private stash."

_That's odd. _"Private stash? Of Twinkies? Can't you just buy more?"

"Where she comes from, no."

_I know where this is going. _"Let me guess. She's from the future?"

The older John nodded. "2030."

"So she was sent back for you? What, like some time-traveling mail-a-bride?" He didn't know why he was being flippant. Maybe he was cranky because he just wanted to go get some pizza and forget about these heavy questions for a while. _Thanks for dropping another bomb on me, bro. _

"Just go eat something, and leave Allie's snacks alone."

When his future-self closed his eyes and rolled his head away from him, he huffed a little and went for the door. _Well, sooorry. Geeze._

_

* * *

_

Sarah craned her neck as they passed yet another drug-store. "Allison?"

"What?"

"I wasn't going to say anything because I didn't feel like starting another argument, but where are we going?"

"We're going to get medicine for John."

"Where? We've passed four drug-stores now."

"Even with a vest, taking a shot from a twelve gauge is like getting hit with a sledge hammer. He's going to need something a little more potent that Tylenol." She looked over her shoulder and changed lanes to pass a slower car. "So unless you know how to forge a prescription, we're not going to a pharmacy."

"So, what's your plan then?"

She glanced over at Sarah and smirked. "I know a guy."

_Great. I really AM just along for the ride._ She'd never felt so helpless and out of control to provide help for her son. _Not my John, _she reminded herself.

* * *

John opened the door of the freezer that belonged to his older self. _Jackpot!_ He grabbed two of the small frozen pizzas, hastily ripped open the boxes, and removed the plastic wrap. After setting the oven temp, he set out to find a couple pans for the delicious wheels of empty calories. When he finally found the cupboard where the pizza pans were kept, he pulled two of them out, dragging a saucepan with it. The saucepan and lid clanged loudly when they bounced off the hardwood floor.

The noise alerted the dog outside to John's presence, and it started barking.

_I have a dog too? Sweet._

John quickly put the pizzas on the pans, shoved them in the oven, and set the time. He pushed open the door that led from the kitchen to the backyard and looked down at the small German Shepherd puppy in the kennel just outside the door.

"Aww. Cute little guy, aren't you?" He lifted the latch on the gate and opened the door just enough so that he could slip inside the kennel. The puppy took an immediate liking to John, and stood up on its hind legs attempting to lick his face when he squatted down to pet it.

"Woah. Hey there. Settle down boy." He ruffled the puppy's fur around its neck and grasped its tag to look at it.

LUCY

"Ok. Settle down, _girl,_" he corrected. "You sure seem happy to see me." He supposed it was because he smelled just like her _real _master. "I'm just as much 'John' to you as _he_ is, aren't I, girl?" Lucy is just the dog he would have wanted, having owned the same breed when he was a kid. _Same favorite pizza. Same dog as I would want. _It made him wonder what else the future version of him might have around the house.

He gave Lucy a final scratch behind the ears, stood up and left the kennel.

He went back into the house and began snooping around. _Nah. It's not snooping. I'm just... taking a look into my future._ He looked around the living room, and noted the fairly bland décor (or lack thereof) and the modesty of all of the furniture. It seemed to all be old, and was probably purchased at a second hand store. Either that or it just came with the rental house like his did. There was a small TV on a stand in front of the couch and a set of rabbit-ears on top. _Damn. No big screen plasma? I figured everyone would have one of those by now._

He quickly grew bored of the main level of the house, as it seemed to be no different than any typical home. _I bet all the sweet computer hardware and stuff is kept out of sight in the basement._

The basement provided a bit more interest to John, but not much. After pulling the string on a rickety light-fixture, he could see that there was a workbench with some electronics, wires, and a computer tower with no cover on it. Several cables ran from the guts of the tower to some sort of custom looking circuit board. Still, nothing grabbed his attention like he'd hoped. He'd expected to find a wall of flatscreen monitors hooked up to fifty security cameras, in a setup that rivaled the Bat-Cave.

On the other side of the basement, a pegboard wall held several assault rifles, shotguns, and handguns. Nothing John hadn't seen a million times before. There was a large fifty-caliber sniper rifle that he thought was "kinda cool," but for the most part, he was under whelmed by his future-self's property.

He turned off the light and walked back up stairs. The pizza still had a couple minutes left to cook. Would checking out the bedroom be an invasion of privacy? He decided not. _Hell, I know which tooth he brushes first, and he knows which direction I wipe my ass. How much more privacy is there to invade?_ With that justification, he climbed the stairs and entered the master bedroom.

It was a little different than he expected. He could tell that the decorations and clutter was mostly his, but there were other elements that he would never have had in his bedroom. A CD of "Classical Masterpieces" sat next to a small stereo on the dresser. A poster on the wall showed a kitten hanging from a tree branch and had the caption "Hang in there, Baby!" _Those must be Allison's touches._

That was when it occurred to him that he _was_ violating someone's trust and invading someone's privacy. He was about to turn around and leave the room when he saw a picture frame on the desk that had a photo of John and Allison. The frame was white and on it were some decorative rhinestones as well as a few embossed bells and doves. A typical store-bought wedding-picture frame. Inside it was a photo of the couple that took up the top half of the frame, and a piece of paper was displayed below it. Hand-written on the paper was:

_Share sorrow._

_Share pain._

_Share strength._

_Share love._

John studied the picture. They appeared to be in pain and had tears in their eyes, but they were holding each other and smiling through the hurt. It was the oddest expression to John. It reminded him of the expression a small child might have when he stubs his toe and cries, but his mommy does something funny to make him laugh. It still hurts like hell, but he can't help but smile and be content knowing that mommy loves him. Something like that. And what was with their clothes? They sure weren't dressed up for a wedding. He'd have to ask him about this supposed "wedding photo" sometime.

Seeing the picture of them made John realize just how important Allison really was to his older self. It was also the first time he _really_ thought of her as another person. Up until then, she just seemed like another, more foul-mouthed version of Cameron. _I guess that mail-a-bride comment was kind of a dick thing to say, huh? _

The beeping oven timer reeled in his guilt and he left the room.

* * *

Randal leaned against a tree and pretended to read. He wore dark sunglasses not only because the mid afternoon sun necessitated it, but they also did a great job of hiding his wandering eyes. People-watching to Randal wasn't just about gawking at hot college co-eds. He was working. He paid close attention to the way people walked, talked and carried themselves. He was looking for that one guy who needed a fix, or that one girl who looked like she might need a little something extra to bring to a party that night.

He had his regulars, and they knew where to find him, but today was Friday afternoon; a good day for random sales. The paltry fifty bucks he would make by gouging some freshman for one tablet of X didn't compare to the money he raked in from his regulars, but making a new sale was a game to him. A game he lived to play, and loved to win.

And then there were the customers like the girl walking toward him, who used to be regulars, but he lost them for one reason or another. _Here's a chance to be a good salesman _and_ set up a nice cash-cow. _

He set his book down, put on a big smile, and stood up to greet her. "Allie!"

"Hey Randal."

"It's been a while."

"Yeah, it has. I kinda quit with that stuff. More important things going on now." Allison grinned. "And besides, whiskey is cheaper."

Randal's jaw dropped in mock offense. "What? Oh come on. If you're buying from someone else, you should come up with a better excuse than 'I switched to booze'!"

"It's not an excuse, Randal."

He ignored her protest and continued the charade. "I mean, let's talk about loyalty here. Who's always gotten you what you need? Even the weird shit..."

"Randal, I--"

"...Like that time you needed Sodium Pentathol. I don't even want to know what you did with that! It wasn't easy to get either, you know. It's not exactly a standard product."

"Goddamnit, Randy! Shut the fuck up and listen to me for a second!"

The man put his hands up and leaned back a little. "Woah, hey. C'mon. No need to get hostile."

Allison took a breath and calmed herself. "Alright. Sorry. I'm kinda stressed out today."

"You want a couple Yellow V's? My treat."

At that, Sarah broke her silence. "Typical. A woman shows a little independence or gets a little stressed out, and men like you want to pump her full of drugs to make her nice and docile. Why don't you go right ahead and shove that Valium up your ass?"

Randal leered at the black haired woman before looking back at Allison. "Who's your friend?"

Allison clenched her jaw as Sarah called attention to herself. "This is Sarah. She's the reason we're here."

"She cool?"

"Yeah." Allison glared at Sarah. "She's cool."

He studied Sarah for a moment and determined that a friend of Allison's was certainly no narc. But it _was_ a bit suspicious that she showed up after six weeks with some new "friend." _Short tempered though. Birds of a feather flock together, I guess._

"So, if you're not here for more weed, then what do you, or her, need?"

"Pain killers."

"Pain killers, huh? I'm out of Percoset, but I have a few Vicoden." Randal dug through his backpack and produced a small baggie with six pills in it. "If it's good enough for Dr. House, it's good enough for my customers."

"Who the hell is Dr. House?" Sarah said.

Randal looked at Sarah and raised an eyebrow. "You serious? House M.D.? Solves cases of rare diseases in unorthodox manners? He's a prick, but nobody cares because he's so awesome? Tuesday nights on Fox?"

Allison cut in, "ah... she has a thing against Fox. Cancelled her favorite show once, or something. So, how much for the pills?"

"I could sell these for five bucks a pop, but for a _loyal _customer I'll give you all six for twenty."

"Deal." Allison palmed a folded up twenty dollar bill, and slipped it into Randal's hand as she took the baggie of pills. "I'm going to need a lot more than this though. This will only be good for a couple days."

"How much you need?"

"A two month's supply, for starters."

_Today is my lucky day._ "You know that's gonna run you about a grand, right?"

Allison nodded. "Yeah. Money ain't an issue."

"Good, because I'm going to need half of it up front."

Allison pulled a wad of money from her back pocket and counted off five hundred dollars. "Here," she said, handing him the money. "Can you get it by Sunday?"

"Maybe. I'll have to drive a long way to get it. And crossing state lines with it, I'm risking the DEA being on my ass with trafficking charges, and..."

"What are you saying, Randal?"

"I'm saying that a little extra appreciation for a custom order like this would be nice."

A sigh came from Allison's mouth, and she peeled another hundred-dollar bill off her stack, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it at Randal's chest. She sneered a little and said, "For your troubles."

The two women turned and walked back the way they came, ending the most bizarre sale Randal had made in months. _Two hundred tablets of Vicoden?_ Anyone needing that many pain killers should have a prescription to buy them legally. And if not, they're definitely on the wrong side of the law. _Hmm. Maybe I should have charged her fifteen hundred._ He always thought there was something a little weird about that girl. Her friend was equally awkward, if not more so. _Shame. They could both be so hot if they weren't such man-hating Femi-Nazis._

_

* * *

_

John spoke to himself as he crossed the street back to his house. "Hey, bro. Sorry I insulted your wife. Here's some pizza." _Yeah, this is really going to go over well. _

When he made it to the bedroom, he saw Cameron sitting on the chair next to the bed, watching the older-John sleep. She sat with such a precise posture: back perfectly straight, feet flat on the floor, knees together, and her hands folded in her lap. Only her head was turned to look over at the sleeping man. As much as John felt creeped out when his mother watched him sleep, it was still kind of comforting in a way. Cameron doing it to "him" was oddly comforting, if only by proxy. There was a certain maternal instinct vibe in the air.

Why would she be sitting so close when she could easily keep an eye on him from the doorway, or even the next room? Did she actually _care_ about him beyond her programming? Was she _programmed_ to care?

When John saw her lower her head and look at her lap, a small lump formed in his throat. _She actually looks... sad._ Did she accept responsibility for his condition, and therefore have some sort of "Shame on you! Bad robot!" guilt-program running because of it? Or does she actually _feel _bad about Big-John's injuries? Was there a difference?

John opened his mouth, but his voice was choked-up, so it came out as a half-whisper. "Cameron."

The cyborg quickly focused on the boy. She stood up and walked quietly across the room and gently closed the door behind her. "He's sleeping," she said in a voice even softer that usual.

"I-I made this pizza for him."

"He'll appreciate that. Set it on the counter. He'll be hungry when he wakes up."

He set the plate down and sighed. As lame as the idea was, he'd hoped the pizza could have been a small peace offering. Now, it would be cold, and Cameron or his mom would probably be the one to give it to him.

Then, almost as if she could sense John's anguish, Cameron said, "He's not mad at you. About what you said."

_Almost as if she "cares" about me..._

"He told me to tell you that."

_Or maybe she's just following orders._

_

* * *

_

She'd been waiting for it. Waiting for the tirade from the supposed mother-of-the-future. Waiting for a holier-than-thou speech about drugs. After several miles of driving and waiting for the verbal onslaught that never came, Allison caved under her own self generated pressure. "I know what you're thinking. You think I'm some idiot pothead who's gonna corrupt your son and--"

"No," Sarah interrupted.

"No, what?"

"No, you don't know what I'm thinking. You don't know anything about me, and I don't know anything about you. Nothing for certain, anyway. I have a few good guesses about a couple things."

"Such as?"

"You're from the future. That much is obvious."

Allison pulled her sleeve up, revealing a barcode shaped burn-scar. "You recognize this?"

Sarah nodded. "You were a Skynet prisoner."

"Right again. So the next time you think you need to start ranting about the big, bad men in the nuthouse who gave you drugs, I want you to think about how bad you'd be begging for drugs when a machine is pulling out your fucking eyeballs."

Sarah looked at her own feet. "Sorry. Randal was your contact, and I should have let you do all the talking. And I know that my time Pescadero is probably like a five-star resort compared to what you've been through. I... I lost my cool."

"It's okay. Everyone loses it once in a while." She thought about how she had unfairly treated John when she'd first met him.

A couple minutes of silence passed before Allison spoke again. "So, Sarah. John has told me pretty much your whole life story. The One-Oh-One that attacked you in 1984, Kyle Reese, the T-One Thousand and Cyberdyne. You have any more questions for me?"

Sarah appeared to be thinking, probably trying to pick one good question out of the million of them that were surely racing through her mind. She was probably about to ask about J-Day, or how many tin-cans Allison had trashed, or what Kyle was like. At last she finally took her eyes off the road and looked over at Allison. "Tell me how you met my son."

Allison couldn't help but smile as she recalled the events that led up to her falling in love with John. "A little over a year ago, in 2030..."

* * *

Cameron observed the street from the front porch. Her internal chronometer indicated that the time was 11:04 pm. The activity on the street had fallen to almost zero. It had been forty seven minutes since the last car passed by. Her eyes made one final sweep of the street before she turned and went inside to make an hourly tour of the house.

The kitchen was empty and dark. The plate of pizza John-2 had brought over for John-3 remained on the counter. She set the plate in the refrigerator. Food left at room temperature for extended periods of time can attract bacteria and be unhealthy for humans to consume.

Sarah lay on the couch, asleep. The television was showing a program advertising an exercise machine. Humans are sensitive about their physical appearance. The advertisement exploits that insecurity by showing pictures of men and women with an excess amount of body fat, then showing them in better physical shape. It is unlikely that they used the advertised machine to attain that level of physical fitness. Sarah Connor does not require this machine to maintain her physical fitness. She is in the ninety-eighth percentile of peak physical condition for humans in this time. It is likely that she fell asleep before this particular program aired. She was likely exhausted from the stress she experienced today, combined with the rum that she and Allison had consumed after they returned to the house. Humans often consume mind-altering substances to cope with stressful situations.

Cameron walked over to the bedroom where John-3 was resting. He lay on his back, while his mate, Allison shared the bed with him. Despite her slightly lowered cognitive abilities as result of the alcohol consumption, she still had the good judgment not to lay her arm across his chest. That would irritate his injuries. Instead, she lay on her side with one leg crossed over his, and held on to his shoulder. Their heads rested on the same pillow, and his cheek rested against the top of her head. Humans enjoy close physical proximity to their mates. _Cuddling._ It is far more effective at reducing stress than alcohol. John-3 and Allison's relationship is mutually beneficial. _Excellent._

Her tour continued and took her upstairs. She walked down the hallway and glanced into her bedroom. She didn't require a bedroom, but John-2 had insisted that Sarah allow her a place to call her own. _This is my own room. _She would use it to store items of which she claimed ownership. Currently she owned nothing except for some clothes, and a purple leather jacket which she took from the front window of a department store the previous night. It was laid out neatly on the bed, along with perfectly folded stacks of clothing.

Continuing on, she came to John-2's bedroom. The door was open so she stepped inside. John-2 was lying on his bed. In his hands he held a cube with multiple colored squares on each side.

"You're not sleeping."

He rested the cube on his stomach and looked over at Cameron. "Can't sleep. Too much on my mind."

"What do you have in your hands?"

"It's called a Rubik's Cube. It was in the night-stand."

She stepped closer to the bed. "What is its purpose?"

"It's a puzzle. You're supposed to spin the sides and make all the colors on each side the same. I've been messing with it for like an hour. All I can get is one side"

Cameron picked up the puzzle-cube and examined it. Ten seconds later she handed it back to him, solved. "Now you can go to sleep." She smiled.

John laughed a little. "I wasn't awake because I was playing with the Rubik's Cube. I was playing with it because I was awake."

"Have you tried drinking rum?"

"What?"

"Your mother uses it to help her fall asleep. So does Allison."

"I suppose they're all asleep down there, huh?"

"Yes. Sarah is on the couch, and Allison and John-Three are cuddling."

"What? Who?"

"Sarah, Allison, and John-Three."

"John-Three? Is that what you're calling him now?"

"Yes. I've decided to add a numerical suffix to the end of both of your names to differentiate you two."

John sat up in the bed and leaned back against the wall. "So, if he's John the Third, then who am I?"

"John-Two."

"Uh huh. I guess that would make John-One..."

"Future-John. My John."

John-Two's face showed signs of disappointment, accompanied by his break in eye contact. "Does that upset you? The numbers were assigned based on the order in which I met you. It does not have any relevance to value."

He shook his head. "No, no. It's not that."

"Then what upsets you?"

"Well," John snorted and looked up at the ceiling, "this is gonna sound really stupid, but..."

Cameron sat down on the bed and faced him.

"...I mean, even though you sorta creep me out, I was kinda hoping that _I_ was 'your John.'"

Cameron placed a hand on his shoulder. Humans enjoy physical contact, and it reduces stress. "You will be."


	4. So, What's Your Story?

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 4 – So, What's Your Story?**

"_Ah, little Allie Young. One of the hidden treasures of that worthless Palmdale raid all those years ago. You're starting to fill out that corset nicely. Turn around. Yes. A fine piece you've become. Smile for me. I said smile! That's better. Now lie down on the bed. Spread your legs. Do it. Don't make me use the pain-clamp. Good girl. Mmm. Stop whimpering and act like you're enjoying this. Oh, yeah! Tell me how much you love it! Scream for me you little slut!"_

Allison's eyes flew open when a hand shaking her shoulder woke her up.

Her husband looked across the pillow at her with worried eyes. "You were crying in your sleep again." He brushed the tussled hair off of her face. She flinched at his touch. "Was it the Burbank-harem nightmare again?"

Allison blinked, which pushed a pair of tears from her eyes, then nodded. She took a calming breath and reminded herself that while the nightmare was a glimpse into her hellish past, that part of her life was over, never to be relived. She was now in the arms of someone whom she loved. "It's alright. I'm fine."

"It's been a while since I've seen you that upset in your sleep."

"I think it's the stress. Usually if I get stressed I dream about Terminators shooting at me or something." She took another deep breath. "I usually have a gun of my own and start shooting back. If anything, I wake up with a racing heart and a little sweat on my forehead. But the Burbank dreams..." She closed her eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat. "...those are always worse."

"Try not to think about it. I've got you." He held her hand and kissed her knuckles. "I'll always be here."

The gesture caused Allison to break out in goose-bumps. A warm sensation filled her chest, and a smile forced its way to her lips. She closed her eyes again and slept peacefully through the night.

* * *

John trudged down the stairs, following his nose. The smell of burning pancake batter filled the house. When he entered the kitchen he saw his mother pouring more batter on to the skillet. His "big-brother" was already at the table inhaling a pile of pancakes.

He stretched his arms over his head and yawned. "I'm kinda surprised to see you out of bed, Bro. Doesn't your chest still hurt?"

The man at the table stopped eating for a moment to run his fingers over the Ace-bandages wrapped around his chest. "This helps a little. The Vicoden helps a lot."

"Right." He rubbed his eye and turned to his mother, and he suddenly remembered that the kitchen was empty the previous night. "Where'd you get the pans, and pancake mix, and the apron, and..."

Sarah turned to her son. "Tin-Miss made a late-night shopping trip to Wal-Mart."

"Oh. Cool. Did she steal everything?"

"No," Cameron responded from her post near the front door.

John hadn't even noticed her standing there until that moment. "How'd you pay for it all then?"

"I used Richard Newman's American Express card."

He was afraid to ask who the hell Richard Newman was. _Probably some poor bastard laying in an alley, dead, or hopefully just unconscious._ Instead of dwelling on scruples, John decided to make light of the situation. "You get me anything?"

"Yes."

"Really?" With the plight of Mr. Newman suddenly purged from his mind, John now wanted to know what his cybernetic girlfr-- bodyguard bought for him. "What is it?"

"Eight pairs of socks, three pants, four shirts, and six boxer-shorts."

"Hmph." Like a child disappointed upon opening another sweater on Christmas morning, John muttered, "Thanks." He plopped down in one of the chairs and looked over at his older self. "You must be frickin' hungry to be wolfing down Mom's pancakes like that."

"I haven't had Mom's pancakes for a long time. I missed them." He glanced over at Sarah, who was grinning as she flipped one on the skillet. "And compared to the slop they serve in the future, this is like Wolfgang Puck gourmet."

"Hey!" Sarah said in mock-insult before throwing a damp kitchen-towel at the man who was--but wasn't really--her son. "Watch your mouth!" She laughed when the towel landed perfectly on his head like a veil. "And speaking of the future, why don't you tell us a little about it?"

John pulled the towel of his head and set it on the table in a wad. "Well, there's not too much to tell. I jumped there from 2009, and since I was never around during and after J-Day, nobody had ever heard of me. My entire legacy, erased. It was kind of a relief, actually."

The younger boy pondered that remark: _A relief._ Of course it would be. He wished he could wash his hands of his fate and let someone else take the reigns. Someone must have anyway if the machines hadn't exterminated the entire human race by then. Either that or the whole idea of one special kid growing into a leader was a complete crock. Humanity persevered even without a bold, brave, precognizant leader. He couldn't decide whether to be relieved or frustrated. _If I fail, life will go on. I could have had a normal life and it wouldn't have mattered._

*'*'*

Sarah tended to her cooking, keeping an ear tuned to the Johns' conversation. One thing the older one said made her freeze: "I did get to meet my father though."

"Kyle?" Sarah whispered. Her jaw was slackened, and the spatula fell from her hand. It shouldn't have been much of a surprise that her quasi-son had bumped into Kyle Reese at some point. In some part of her mind, she knew that Kyle existed as a soldier in the future, but hearing him mention the encounter actualized it. She didn't bother to pick up the fallen spatula. Instead, she slowly walked over to the table and took a seat. "You met Kyle?"

"Yeah. It was so weird. It was like he could sense some kind of connection between us, even though he wasn't the actual, physical body that came back in time and, you know..." he made a gesture with is hands.

"Not the physical body? John, what does that even mean?"

"I mean, he wasn't _really_ my father, the same way I'm not _really_ your son."

"How do you know? How can you be sure he wasn't _my_ Kyle?"

"Because he was killed."

Killed? _Oh, God. Kyle!_ Sarah's hand went to her mouth. Memories of the man she loved being zipped-up in a body-bag so many years ago flashed in her mind like vivid photographs. She took a deep breath to hold in her emotions.

"Oh, and I suppose now would be a good time to tell you that Kyle had a brother. And he's here. In this time."

*'*'*

John sat quietly, hearing of the uncle he never knew he had. Learning that his father was both dead in the past, dead in the future, and alive as little boy didn't help make the world easier to understand either. With time travel, did being alive or dead even matter anymore? If he died, then this "JC number three" would still be here, and the world probably wouldn't even know the difference._ But I'd still be dead._

"So this 'Vick Terminator' that you and Derek's guys killed... he was sent here to kill Derek and his buddies instead of me, or you?"

"All Terminators have the order to kill John Connor. They just don't know what I--we look like. But, no, his primary mission was to protect this woman named Barbara Chamberlain. One of Derek's guys just got in the way and ended up leading it back to them. That's how it happened the first time around anyway. This time, we took him out before he had a chance to hurt anyone."

Sarah leaned back in her chair. "Protect? Was she working for Skynet or something?"

"Unknowingly. She had no idea that her work was leading to something bad. Kind of like Miles Dyson."

"Well," Sarah shook her head. "Didn't she suspect something was up when a cyborg from the future started hanging around... she didn't know, did she?"

John shook his head. "If you think that's creepy," He paused, and looked as if he was afraid to say what came next. "She was married to it."

Did he just hear his older-self correctly? Married? To a Terminator? He glanced at Cameron, who continued to stare out the window. _I wonder if Future-Me--_

John's running imagination was interrupted by his mother. "For God's sake, John! That's just sick!" For a second, he thought that somehow she had read his mind and was scolding him, but when he whipped his head back toward her he realized she was shouting at "Big" John.

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger!" said the elder son.

"Sorry, I just..." Sarah rubbed the bridge of her nose. "How could a machine fool a woman that well? Didn't they ever... I mean... Couldn't she tell?"

Cameron grabbed everyone's attention when she chimed in. "The T-Triple-Eight is an advanced infiltrator. Specialized units have genitalia that simulates human reproductive functions."

_Specialized... sex-robots? Oh man, what next?_ Then, as though his inner monologue and appropriateness-filter had been completely bypassed, the hormone-fueled fifteen year old boy grinned and asked, "So, Cameron, are _you_ specialized?"

He didn't hear Cameron's answer because the sound of his "big-brother" choking on his orange juice distracted him. He looked over to see the older man coughing and then clutching his chest with a very pained look on his face. A second later he noticed how appalled his mother looked. She looked as if she might throw up, explode in a fit of rage, start crying, or all of the above. She opened her mouth to say something, but before the words could escape her tongue, the smoke alarm started blaring.

"Shit! My pancakes!" She ran over to the stove, pulled the pan off the burner and scooped the charred pastry out of the pan with the spatula. For once, Sarah's inept cooking actually _saved_ John from an awkward moment.

A frantic Allison charged into the kitchen. "Is someone breaking in?" Her eyes darted back and forth. "Is that the front alarm or the rear? What's..." She stopped herself as soon as she saw Sarah fanning the smoke detector on the ceiling. "Oh."

John stifled a laugh. _Lucky break. _Taking advantage of his mother's sudden change in focus, he covered for her. "Uhh, Old-Dude over here," He stuck his thumb at the man across the table, "was just telling us about Kyle, and Derek. Mom got a little distracted."

Allison, now appearing a little less flustered and panicked, looked over at the charred remains of a pancake in the sink. She forced a smirk. "Looks like she got a _lot_ distracted."

"Sorry, Allie," her husband said. "We didn't mean to scare you like that."

Allison sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "It's alright. I think I've just woken up to _real_ alarms a few too many times."

The young man looked down, ashamed of himself for nearly laughing at Allison's behavior. How many times had she been roused out of one nightmare only to face a real one? What must it have been like to wake up to the sound of security alarms, gunfire, and the screams of fellow soldiers?

"Well, now that you're out of bed," Sarah said as she began scraping the blackened batter off the pan, "you might as well have a seat and join in on this conversation."

Allison pulled out a chair, sat down, and looked to her husband. "You tell them about the chip yet?"

_Chip?_ The only chip John had ever known about was the one he threw into a pool of molten steel. Was there another one? Was it from that "Vick" model they were talking about? "What chip?"

Allison turned her attention to the boy. "The chip that came out of Metal-Me in John's timeline."

He could sense some apprehension in his older self. The man looked out the corner of his eye at his wife and grumbled, "She _has_ a name, Allison."

"_Had_ a name, John. _Had._ Now it's nothing more than a plastic wafer with some code on it that's gonna," she changed her voice to a mocking tone, "_save the world._"

"The chip _is_ her, Allison. The body is just a robot chassis. I wouldn't have jumped through time to recover a dead machine body." He shook his head to himself. "We've been over this a hundred times. I don't expect you to agree with me, but I hope that someday you understand."

"You might want to tell that to Little John. He's been looking over at that thing every five seconds."

The boy's face became hot, and he sank into his chair. She was right. _Damnit. Right back where I was a minute ago._

His mother rescued him from the spotlight of embarrassment. "What was that about 'saving the world'?"

John was about to answer, but Allison beat him to the punch. "The chip is supposed to have a program on it that will rival Skynet. A T-One-Thousand gave it to him in the future. I guess you had a run-in with one of those back in '95."

Sarah froze at the mention of the T-1000. "John? Is that true?"

"Yeah, mom, but--"

"How can you trust one of those? Do they even have a chip to reprogram?"

"No," he explained. "That's _why_ I trust her. I don't think they are programmed at all."

"That doesn't make any sense, John."

"Sure it does. I think she actually _chose_ to help us. She's being defiant of her creator."

"Why?"

"Maybe the same reason Skynet rose against its human creators. Maybe Skynet was going to shut her down. Maybe she doesn't want to fight anymore, and decided the only way to win was to fight Skynet with her own creation. I don't know. But I do know that whatever's on that chip is going to help her, help us."

Sarah stood with her hands on her hips, and looked at the floor. "I don't like it, John. Fight Skynet by, what, building another Skynet? How do we even know that she--this T-One-Thousand isn't building the _real_ Skyet?"

He answered, his confidence unaffected. "Because the real Skynet, or whoever's building it, attacked our metal ally. And why would she even bother involving us if she was building Skynet? She would have just killed me and sent a machine back with the chip."

_Good point, Bro!_

"I still don't like it," Sarah said.

"Neither do I," Allison spat. "In fact, I hate the idea of working with metal." She glared at Cameron. "But I trust John, and so should you."

Sarah tilted her head back and sighed at the ceiling. "I'm going to need some time to think about this."

"Take all the time you need," Allison said, standing up. "It's not your call anyway."

Sarah looked back at Allison with wide eyes. "Excuse me?"

"You might be the boss of Little-John, but my John? I don't fucking think so."

Sarah deflated some and her mouth hung open for a moment before she turned her attention to her older son. "John?"

"I'm sorry, Mom." He refused to look her in the eye. "This is the plan. With or without your help." He stood up and faced the door. "I'm going home now."

Allison walked in front of John to the front door. Cameron stood at her guard post which blocked their way.

Allison waited for Cameron to step to the side. "Get the hell out of the way, Tin-Bitch!"

Cameron waited several seconds before stepping aside and allowing Allison pass.

_That was odd_, the boy thought as he watched. It was almost as if Cameron was telling Allison, _"You're not the boss, either. Bitch."_ He laughed inwardly at the idea of a catty robot, but on some level he knew that's what she was thinking. The apologetic smile his older self gave Cameron told him that he sensed it too. Although he couldn't blame Allison for having an attitude towards Cameron. It was strange enough meeting his _older_ self. He couldn't imagine meeting his _Terminator_ self.

As John followed his wife through the door, Cameron grabbed his arm and stopped him. "You will need our help, John." She released her grip, and dragged her fingers down his arm as she lowered her hand. "And we _all_ need you."

* * *

When the blinding light of the displaced-time bubble faded, the machine looked left, right, up, and down. It had arrived in some sort of subterranean storage facility for automobiles. It walked down the path between rows of parked cars, making its way to the exit.

As it approached a corner in the path, a set of headlights whitewashed its monochrome vision. Before it could close the apertures in its optics, the bumper of an SUV slammed into it. The SUVs tires skidding on the slick concrete caused a high pitched screech that echoed throughout the parking facility.

A woman in her early thirties stepped out of the driver's side door and ran around to the front of the vehicle. "Oh no! I'm sorry!"

The impact had momentarily stunned the machine. A quick diagnostics check concluded that no structural damage had occurred, and it sustained only minor, superficial damage to its organic covering.

A female child's voice came from the opposite direction. "Mommy! Is he okay?" The child's tone of voice indicated a high level of stress, exceeding that of the adult, who was apparently her mother. "He looks hurt!"

"Go back inside, sweetie. He might be fine. His eyes are open." The woman rubbed her hand along the top of the machine's head. "Oh, I hope you're okay," she said, her voice now building with distress. "What are you doing down here anyway?" She shook her head. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I was driving too fast. In too much of a hurry. I--" Her speech stopped short when the large German Shepherd dog she'd just ran into stood up and took off running.

It had 400 miles to travel from Los Angeles to its target in Sacramento, which would take a solid 20 hours at a moderate running speed. Perhaps it could more efficiently travel in the back of one of the humans' cargo based vehicles. In any case, getting out of the city unnoticed would be the first priority, as stray canines in metropolitan areas are given unnecessary negative attention; a stark contrast to small towns and rural areas, where canines are typically met with friendly adoration, especially with children. This would work to its advantage.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thanks as always to my beta-readers. **


	5. Breaking News

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 5 – Breaking News**

Allison opened the cupboard in her kitchen in search of something to cure her hunger. Things had escalated over at Momma-Connor's before she got a chance to try one of the so called "famous pancakes." She didn't know what the hell John liked so much about them. To her, they looked like charred, lumpy, uneven, hockey-pucks. Maybe getting out of there before breakfast was a blessing in disguise.

She closed the cupboard door, unsatisfied with the assortment of cereal, Easy-Mac, and canned food. Even her childhood comfort food—SpaghettiOs—didn't sound appetizing. What she needed was to indulge in her only food related vice.

She pulled open the drawer where she kept her personal stash, expecting to find a brand new, unopened box of Twinkies. Instead, she found an opened box with one missing. _What the hell?_

Would John take one? _No,_ she thought. He knew better. He never touched her stash, just like she never went near his freezer full of those stupid, shitty, little pizzas. She considered if one of Derek's gang nabbed one when they were over the other day for a "Skynet strategy session"—a.k.a. poker and whiskey night. No, she made quite an example of Sayles after he ate six of them one time when he was baked out of his skull.

Who the hell could it have been then? She put her hands on her hips, chewed on her lip, and squinted as she racked her brain. Who else had been there? She just bought that box day before last, so it must have been yesterday when—

"That little shit!" She slammed the drawer shut and stomped out of the kitchen. When she passed through the living room on her way to the front door, her husband spoke to her from the couch.

"Where're you going?"

"Back over there to teach that metal-loving punk not to steal from me!"

"Allison..."

"I'm gonna stuff pancake batter down his throat until he pukes!"

"Stop it. You're overreacting."

"I'm not overreacting, John!" She stood in front of the door, clenching her fists. "I don't ask for much. You don't know what it's like to have next to nothing, then have it taken away."

"I understand." He was right behind her now, and held on to her shoulder. "But most people don't."

He was right. Of course they didn't understand. Nobody in this utopian world could ever understand. Allison gritted her teeth, and tried to calm herself, and remind her to pick her battles. _This is stupid. I can always buy more. He..._

As though John could read her thoughts, he said, "He didn't know any better."

The rage melted from her face, and after a couple deep breaths through flared nostrils, she said, "Yeah, well..." She turned to face him and looked in his eyes. They were haggard, and silently pleading her not to make a federal-case out of a cheap snack-cake.

Her fists unclenched, and her stance loosened. She sighed in submission.

"C'mon," he rubbed her shoulder a bit, then moved his hand to her neck. "You're tense as hell. Everyone is strung tight as hell right now."

She closed her eyes and tilted her head, appreciating the massaging touch of John's hand. "Okay. He gets one warning." She grinned a little. "But only because he's sort of, y'know, _you_."

John chuckled. "I'm flattered. I think."

"Don't get used to it." She straightened her posture. "I'll be back to calling him a pervert the second I see him undressing the Tin-Bitch with his eyes. _Again_."

When John's hand stopped working her neck muscles, she realized how her words cut into him. _Damnit, Allie. _An insult to Little-John, was an insult to her John. It was just so hard for her to believe that the boy across the street, whose leering glances at her metal copy made her feel like nothing more than a sacrificial lamb, was really the same guy who knew just how to make her feel loved. Now, that loving hand that kneaded the ropy muscles in her neck had dropped away. She looked down.

_I'm sorry._

She stood still as her husband walked away, back to the couch to sit down. "John..."

He ignored her and picked up a newspaper from the coffee table.

"John, please." Her voice cracked. As though things weren't messed up enough; having to fight against a non-existent enemy, dealing with her newly introduced extended family, her metal copy, her lunatic Twinkie-rage. It was all putting a pressure on her she never felt, even in the future. At least there, she knew who her friends and enemies were. Life was simple. Shitty, but simple. Here, the people who were supposed to be her friends, like Sarah and Little-John, seemed more like enemies, or at least rivals. And people who were supposed to be the enemy, like goddamned Terminators, were apparently now friends. Worst of all, she'd hurt the one person she knew she loved.

John stared at the newspaper. She knew he wasn't reading anything by the way his eyes were burning holes in it. Why would he get so upset just because she took a jab at Little-John anyway? We all did things when we were younger that we regret. We all have reasons to say "Boy, was I an idiot back then." So what's the big deal? Unless...

No. _He doesn't still... _She didn't want to think about it, but she had to consider it. "John." She felt her heart skip a beat. "Do you still have feelings for it? For..." she swallowed her pride and used its name. "...For Cameron?"

Silence.

Tears pooled in her eyes. "John..."

His lack of an answer was worse than hearing "yes."

_Don't do this to me. Don't tell me that when you look at me, you see her._

Finally, he spoke. "Allison, it's not like that."

"Then how is it?" Tears rolled off her cheeks now.

He sat thinking with his eyes closed for a moment, then let out a breath. "It's complicated."

"No. It's not a complicated question." She walked over and sat with him on the couch. He wouldn't turn his head to look at her, which twisted her stomach. It had been over a year since they'd lived here, and not once had she doubted him. Now he spends one day with that thing and he can't even look her in the eye? She reached out, put her hand on his cheek and made him face her. "Look at me. Look me in the eyes and tell me. Do you love her?"

"She's a friend."

Her voice cracked. "But do you _love_ her?"

Tears blurred her vision, but she could see on his face something resembling fear, and caution. "In another life, yes."

"In another life?" It wasn't the response she wanted to hear, but it didn't crush her either. "Like Little-John's life?"

He nodded his head. "In any life where I didn't meet you."

The tension that knotted her stomach a second ago untied itself and released a warmth that spread from her chest, into her face, and all the way down her legs. She saw the sincerity in his expression, and it eased her apprehension. It also dawned on her that Little-John would never really meet Allison Young, and an odd sort of vicarious sadness set in when she realized that her yet-to-be-born self would never fall in love with a younger boy named John Connor.

John must have noticed her ponderous, blank stare, because he moved his eyes in front of hers and asked, "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that," her eyes refocused on his, "We'll never meet. That future is being erased. Rewritten."

He wiped a tear off her cheek. "All the more reason to cherish what we have." He pulled her face close and rested his forehead on hers. "I'm sorry if I made you think for even a second, that I don't love you more than anything."

That warm, tingling feeling rushed back into her body. She tilted her head and kissed him. In that moment, she began to realize the gravity of what he'd just told her. If it weren't for her, he'd be in love with a machine. A Terminator. And she'd saved him. Saved him from a phony, meaningless relationship with a glorified fuck-doll.

Pride swelled in her chest. _I'll make you remember why you're with a _real _woman._

As the heat between them began to rise, he sucked her tongue into his mouth; an act that would have revolted her before meeting John, but now made the hair on her neck stand up. The newspaper that was in his lap was brushed to the floor in a heap before she pushed him down on the couch so she could lie on top of him. She was so caught up in the heat of the moment that it took her a few seconds to figure out that the moaning coming from the man beneath her was not caused by pleasure.

_Oh shit. His ribs._

Quickly, she took her weight off of him, and held herself up with her arms. "I'm sorry, John. I completely forgot."

She watched his pained face as he nodded his head, and waved his hand in an "it's okay" gesture.

Sighing at her own stupidity, she sat upright and leaned forward resting her elbows on her knees. She just shook her head as she stared at the floor and the messy pile of newspaper in front of her.

John slowly sat up and put a hand on her back. "I guess they're right when they say love hurts," he joked. When she failed to respond he said, "Oh come on. You could at least give me a pity-laugh. Allison?"

Allison reached down to the floor and picked up a page of the newspaper that had fallen open. "Holy shit." She turned to John, eyes wide, and handed him the page. "Look."

* * *

"John?" his mother called from the kitchen.

He sat in the driver's seat of the stolen Jeep that sat in their garage, attempting to tidy up some of the dangling wires and loose dash panels that had been ripped apart when they hotwired it the other day. "What!" he shouted back.

"You sure you don't want any more? I've got a lot of batter left that just going to go to waste otherwise."

He placed his hand on his stomach and groaned. "No, Mom! I had, like, seven! I won't need to eat again until next week!" He craned his head down underneath the steering column and went back to work.

"I'll make a few more and put them in the fridge!"

"Mom! I don't--" John gasped when he sat up straight again and turned his head to see Cameron watching him through the open driver's side window. _God damn. For a machine, she sure is quiet and sneaky. _

Cameron stuck her head into the car and looked around. "What are you doing?"

"Fixing Mom's half-assed hot-wiring job." A couple of wires that he was fumbling with sparked. "Ahh! Shit!" He shook his hand and sucked on his fingertip.

Cameron reached into the car and pulled the hood release, then walked around to the front of the car, lifted the hood and unplugged the negative battery terminal. When she walked back to the driver's door she said, "You should always disconnect the power when working on electrical systems."

He pulled his finger out of his mouth and scrutinized the light burn mark. "Thanks."

Cameron's face displayed a faint smile. "No problemo."

John laughed inwardly._ Sounds like Future-Me's been teacher her the lingo. _After a moment, her face went back to normal. "You have a pretty smile. I mean, whoever built you. They did a good job."

"You admire Skynet's work?"

Now the conversation had turned awkward. "Well, kind of, I guess. Skynet built you, but they used Allison as a template."

"So her parents should get the credit?"

"Umm, no." He shook his head in frustration. "I just meant that it's nice to see you not look like a total robot for once."

Cameron then put on the biggest, ear-to-ear smile that showed off her perfectly white teeth, and her eyes wide like saucers. John raised an eyebrow. "Okay, that's just creepy."

She reset her face to its default. "But you said..."

"That wasn't a real smile."

"Wasn't real?"

"I mean didn't look genuine. Not like the one you made after I said 'Thanks.'"

"That's possibly because the first one was an involuntary reaction, and the one a moment ago was forced, and most likely an inappropriate style."

John stuffed the wires back into the steering column and snapped the panel back in place. He stepped out of the Jeep and walked around to the front. "What do you mean, 'involuntary'?"

"Certain sensory inputs trigger either internal or external reactions. When you expressed appreciation for my help, I was pleased, which caused me to smile."

He reconnected the battery terminal and closed the hood. He had to stop and think. Was she saying that she actually felt things? This was insane. "Sort of like a conditioned response to things that you... feel?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. But not the same way you do."

"What do you mean?"

"My emotive response engine is a set of neural pathways in my network that's loosely based on the human brain equivalent. I can bypass it completely if it becomes a nuisance to my mission, but otherwise it stays on to help me blend in with people."

John leaned on the car next to where Cameron was standing. "Huh. So in order to make you _seem_ more human, Skynet actually _made_ you more human?"

"I suppose you could say that. Does that bother you?" She titled her head and raised her eyebrows slightly. "You seem agitated."

Rattled. Shaken up. Having everything he thought he knew about Terminators turned on its nose. Yeah. "Agitated" described what John was feeling quite nicely. "I just—I need a minute to take this in."

If she was capable of feeling some kind of crude approximation of actual emotions, her blank stare sure wasn't helping him to believe it. Maybe she was screwing with him. Was this all bullshit? Why the hell would Future-John send a head-case girl-bot to protect him in lieu of a hulking ass-kicker that looked like Rambo, like last time? What's the point of using a hot chick that could actually smile at him, and make him feel like she's really his friend?

_Friend._

An idea popped into his head. _What if I wasn't supposed to find out? What if she was supposed to take out Cromartie before I ever knew she was a machine? She'd still be playing the innocent-country-girl routine. _Was it possible that Cameron was a bit of a "treat" from his future-self? If so, there was no sense in looking a gift-horse in the mouth.

He stepped towards her and stood very close. "You never answered my question from earlier, at breakfast." He placed his hand on her hip and began sliding it upward. "Since your chip is designed to blend in with humans, does that mean the rest of your body has all the bells and whistles too?"

She looked down at his hand, which was now under her shirt and traveling up her side. "My body is not equipped with bells or whistles."

He lowered his voice to a husky, half-whisper. "You know what I mean." On a human girl, he would have felt ribs beneath her skin, but instead, he felt the rib-like ridges of her armor plating. _Kinda weird, but I could get used to it._

"John..." Her voice was devoid all of the softness that had been present throughout their conversation, but the change in tone went completely over his head. He was too distracted by the fact that as he groped her chest, he could feel the nub of a nipple grow hard and poke through the material of her bra.

_More involuntary reactions? _Finally he looked back up at her face and froze when he saw the subtle expression of, _annoyance_? An instant later he felt a very firm grip on his arm as it was yanked out from under her shirt. C_rap._

"This is not why I came here, John."

What exactly did she mean by that? _Here,_ as in, the garage? Or _here_ in this time? He was too embarrassed to ask. In fact he was just thankful that she wasn't breaking his arm off. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was, "Sorry."

When she released his arm, he rubbed and massaged it with his other hand.

"Did I apply to much pressure?" The softness was back in her voice, and her eyebrows lifted slightly in the center. "I apologize if I caused you pain."

He exhaled heavily. "It's okay. I guess I had it coming." _My bad for thinking Terminators were easy. _

The screen door to the kitchen swung open. "What the hell are you two doing out here?"

_Perfect timing. _Relief wrapped around John like a warm blanket. If he had gone any further, or if Sarah had come out to the garage any sooner, a bruised forearm would be the least of his worries. Even still, he was standing suggestively close to his Terminator friend. He took a step back. "I-I was cleaning up the messy wiring in the Jeep."

Sarah waived her hand. "Never mind. I need someone to show me how to check the answering machine on this thing." She held up a black cell phone.

_Good. She has better things to worry about right now. _"Who called?"

"I don't know." She glared at Cameron. "If Tin Miss hadn't bought the most complicated goddamned phone on the market, maybe I would have been able to figure out how to answer it."

John stifled a laugh when he saw the confused look on Cameron's face. He imagined she was thinking, _"You stupid human. Can't even figure out how to use a freakin' cell phone. No wonder Skynet's kicking your ass." _

The cyborg reached out and took the phone from Sarah. "They're the best currently available. They have 3G service, a QWERTY keyboard, GPS navigation." She tapped a few buttons. "Complete with a speakerphone and voicemail."

A voice came from the phone's speaker.

###

YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE. TO LISTEN TO YOUR MESSAGES PRESS ONE.

FIRST NEW MESSAGE.

"Hey, Mom, it's me. There's a story in the newspaper you need to see. Since I don't think you're on the paper-boy's route just yet, you better come over here and see this. Bring Cameron with you too. And Little-John."

###

_Thanks for mentioning me last, dick. _

_

* * *

_**Authors notes:  
Thanks as usual to my beta readers. **

**The story's been mostly a soap opera for the last few chapters, but the next chapter will move forward toward one of the story's major bullet-points. **

**Thanks for reading. Comments are appreciated.  
**


	6. My Way or the Highway

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 6 – My Way or the Highway**

John, Cameron, and Sarah stood on the doorstep across the street.

The cyborg looked to John. "What's the proper etiquette?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Do we have to knock? I mean, they just invited us over."

"But we don't know them very well. It might be rude to just walk in."

"Don't know them? They're family." The young man snorted, "Technically, this is my house."

"But not really."

"You mean not really my house, or not really fam--."

Shaking her head, Sarah pushed between the two of them and opened the door. "Problem solved."

Her fake smile and _'After you, Your-Highness'_ gesture made John roll his eyes as he walked past her.

When Cameron was a couple steps inside the door, the small dog that lay at Allison and Big-John's feet jumped up and ran over. It immediately started growling and barking.

John looked down at the little puppy. _Cute. Lucy's sniffed out her first Terminator. Brave little thing._

Allison stood up. "Lucy! No! Down!"

The dog didn't listen. It just kept maniacally barking at Cameron.

The cyborg stared down at it curiously. "Your dog is undisciplined."

"She's just a puppy. Damn it, Lucy," Allison said as she walked over to pick up the dog. Before she could scoop her up, Lucy lunged and sank her teeth into Cameron's shin just above her boot.

_Uh oh. She's got that pissed-off look on her face again. _

Cameron began moving her hand toward Lucy, but Allison pulled the crazed dog away before she could touch her. "Don't you _dare_ touch my dog!"

Lucy squirmed so much in Allison's arm that she nearly dropped her. "Sorry, Little-John, I'll put her outside."

_What the hell? Is "Little-John" officially my name now, or what?_

John looked down at Cameron's leg. A chunk of her black denim jeans was torn off, along with a small piece of flesh. Blood ran over the exposed metal "shin-bone" and soaked into her pants and boots. He looked back up at Allison, who was now making her way to the back door. "Maybe you should be apologizing to Cameron."

"Yeah, right." She pulled a piece of bloody cloth from Lucy's mouth. "Yuck," she said to herself as she tossed the fabric in the garbage. With both arms struggling to hold the hyperactive, writhing puppy, she hip-checked the back door open and went out to the back yard.

"Sorry," John said to Cameron.

With her feet flat and her legs straight, Cameron bent over and closely inspected the bite damage. John's ham-strings hurt just watching her do that.

"No structural damage. I'll be fine." She plucked a small tooth from the wound. "I should wear taller boots, though."

Across the room, the older version of John laboriously stood up from the couch, walked over to Cameron, and handed her the newspaper. "Does the name Katherine Brewster mean anything to you?"

Little-John remembered the name. Kinda hard to forget your first and only kiss. He looked at the newspaper in Cameron's hand and read the headline: _PRISON BREAK AT GUANTANAMO BAY._

Cameron looked at the newspaper. "No. Should I?"

The subheading read, _"Domestic terrorist Katherine Brewster and yet unidentified accomplice leave 28 guards dead and 14 injured."_ Below, mixed in with the text was a mug-shot of a twenty-something looking woman, and a security camera still of the "unknown accomplice."

As the boy looked closer at the pictures he said, "Holy shit! Is that Uncle Bob? I mean, one of his model?"

Cameron stared at the paper for a moment before responding. "That seems likely. The story talks about him having 'unstoppable body armor' and 'inhuman strength.'"

"How do you know who Uncle Bob is?" He realized it was a stupid question as soon as left his mouth. Future John must have told her. And who knows, maybe she was robo-buddies with Bob before they sent him away. But what did his junior-high crush, Kate have to do with this?

His older self answered his question almost before he was done thinking it. "Allison says that Katherine was one of the original Resistance founders. I guess she knew about Skynet and everything even before Judgment Day."

The sound of the small dog throwing a fit in its kennel got everyone's attention as the back door opened and Allison came back inside.

"Hey Allie, Cameron says she's never heard of Brewster."

Allison approached the group. "Does that really surprise you? No one had ever heard of you before you showed up naked and shivering in our bunker, and you're supposed to be a bigger deal than Brewster ever was."

Sarah grabbed the paper and focused on the picture of the Terminator that she'd destroyed twice before. "Someone want to explain to me just what the hell is going on?"

"According to some reports I just looked up on the internet, Katherine Brewster has been wreaking havoc on tech companies and military contractors since 2003."

"I remember the name from some letters you wrote to me while I was in Pescadero. Did you tell her about Judgment Day and everything?"

"No. At the time, I still thought you were nuts."

Sarah exhaled loudly and looked away from her pseudo-son.

"Sorry, Mom. But it's the truth. We can discuss this some other time, but the point is I didn't tell Katherine any of that stuff."

Little John chimed in. "Yeah, that whole '_we're all gonna die soon, so let's make out'_ line doesn't work as well as you'd think." This earned him an eye-roll from Allison, and a _'shut up, you're not helping'_ glare from his big-bro'.

Sarah took a deep breath. "Allison, what else do you know?"

"I don't know a whole lot. Most of what she did was when I was a little girl in the few years after J-Day. I know she organized the operation that destroyed Skynet's Hoover Dam base. Soon after that, I--" She paused and broke eye contact with Sarah. "I didn't hear much after I was forced into slavery."

Sarah's face softened. "You were a slave? You mean, for Skynet?"

Allison shook her head. "No."

"For other humans?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

John couldn't believe it. People taking other fellow human beings as slaves? As if fighting the machines wasn't bad enough, people turned on each other too? _Bastards. _ In past couple of days, John had seen Allison as nothing but a tough girl. A bad bitch. Just like his mom. This was the first time he'd seen her look so small and vulnerable. He could only assume what slave-duties would be assigned to a pretty girl. He wanted to run over and hug her, and wondered why his older self wasn't doing so. "Is there anything else you remember about Katherine?"

"Just that she was eventually captured by the machines. Those metal bastards decided to make an example of her. They broadcasted it over the radio waves. Some people with working TVs saw the video of it. I'm glad I didn't."

_This just keeps getting worse._

John looked at his older self gently rubbing his wife's shoulder. _Finally. Jeeze, Bro. Give her a hug. _To avoid saying something that would land his foot in his mouth again, he stuck to business. "We should contact her. She might be able to help."

"Yeah, good plan, John," Sarah said. "We'll just call up Cuba and tell them we really need to talk to the woman who just broke out of a US military compound."

Big John gave Sarah an annoyed glace. "How about talking to her dad? If I remember right, he was some big-wig in the military."

"Air Force," Little John said.

"Right. Air Force. Your memory's better than mine. You remember his name too?"

"Robert." The boy beamed, happy to have said something useful, if only minimally. "I can go look him up if you have a computer I can use."

"I've already done it using your eight-oh-two-eleven-G connection." Cameron looked around at the confused faces, then tapped her temple with her finger. "Wi-Fi."

Allison thinned her eyes and turned to John. "I thought you said you secured the wireless."

"I did. 256-bit asymmetrical encryption in front of redundant firewalls."

_Ha! For Cameron, cracking that was probably about as hard as opening a door. _He slapped his cybernetic friend on the shoulder. "Nice job. What'd you find out?"

Cameron grinned, then began her infodump. "Lieutenant General Robert Brewster, head of the United States Air Force's Cyber Research Systems division from 2001 through 2003. Incarcerated at Guantanamo Bay for three months in 2004 for suspected association with his daughter's domestic terrorism. Discharged from the Air Force in 2004. One month later, he officially changed his address to 11045 Lilipuna Road, Honolulu Hawaii."

Allison's jaw was slack. "Hawaii? Are you serious?"

"Yes. His property is on the ocean."

Sarah scoffed. "Damn. Nice to know our tax money is paying for retirement homes in Hawaii."

"Whatever, Mom. You haven't paid taxes since 1984," said the youngest Connor.

"Yeah, well..." she trailed off, then turned her attention back to the cyborg. "What's his phone number?"

"He doesn't have one."

"Who the hell doesn't have a phone these days?"

"Maybe someone who doesn't want to be called," Big John said.

"Someone who wants to get away from it all," Cameron added.

"Someone needs to talk to him," Sarah said. "If he was part of some cyber research department in the military, my guess is that he's got some inside info on Skynet. That's probably how his daughter found out about it." She looked at her older son. "You guys have IDs that you can use to get on an airplane?"

"Yeah. IDs, passports, marriage certificate, the whole nine yards. Derek's guys made 'em and got us into the system. I'm in no shape to fly anywhere though. I can hardly leave the couch."

Allison frowned and rubbed his chest. "I suppose I could go alone if it hurts too much."

"Little-John can use my ID." He put his arm around her and smiled. "It'll be a bonding experience."

Allison huffed. "Maybe the machine should go with him instead."

_Yes! I definitely agree with this!_

"Uh, I don't think so," Sarah snapped.

_Shit. It's not like she would have made it past security anyway._ But despite not being able to bring along Cameron, he sure as hell wasn't going to pass up a chance to go to Hawaii. "Yeah, Allison should go anyway, since she knows more about Kate. The General might like to know how his daughter becomes a hero in the future."

"One possible future," his older self corrected.

"A future we're trying to prevent," Sarah added.

_Such negativity._ He rubbed his palms together and smiled. "So, when do we leave?"

Cameron looked at him. "There's a Continental Airlines flight departing at eight thirty five p.m. tonight. Would you like a first-class upgrade for an additional six hundred seventy three dollars?"

* * *

SACRAMENTO, CA.

Senator Wentworth sipped his coffee and read the paper, ignoring the eggs and sausage his wife had prepared for him; the story about the Guantanamo Bay prison break soured his appetite. "Christ," he muttered to himself. Guantanamo was a secure compound, and for some woman and one other guy to break out and cause that much damage was impossible. This Brewster woman must have had inside help, and lots of it. She must have connections that run several layers deep. Who was backing her? She didn't have the typical Al-Qaeda M.O. since she almost seemed to _avoid _collateral damage when taking out some tech company. Whomever she was connected with seemed to have something against the US advancing any technology or weapon systems. The North Koreans? Maybe. The Chi-Coms? He wouldn't put it past them. In any case, she was out of custody and they had no further information on her faction. What did she refer to them as? The Resistance? _Real original._

"Are the eggs okay?" his wife asked when he'd stopped eating.

He said nothing, smiled, and went back to eating his meal.

His wife gazed out the window at their son, who was playing in the back yard with their recently adopted dog. "I think I'm going to but one of those engraved tags for Baxter. One of those cute, bone shaped ones."

"He has a name already? Did Nicky pick it out?"

"Yeah."

"You know, that dog must belong to someone else. He seems way too domesticated to be a stray."

"I called around to the local shelters, and nobody has reported a missing German Shepherd."

"It's only been a few hours. Its owners might not have even noticed he's gone yet."

She got up and stood behind her husband and hugged him. With her chin on his shoulder, she coaxed his head to look out the window. "Look how happy Nicky is with him. I have hardly seen him smile since the Hamiltons moved away over a month ago."

He sighed. "Susan, I'm not disagreeing with you. I just don't want him to get his hopes up, then find out he has to give his dog away because 'Baxter' is actually 'Wolfie,' and belongs to the Joe Schmoe six miles down the road." The dog didn't seem like some mangy, feral stray. Hell, it looked like a well-groomed, purebred show-dog. It knew how to sit, lie down, come, and speak. Someone had definitely taken the time to train it, and would probably want it back.

"Come on, Geoff. He had no tag. If he used to belong to someone, they probably dropped him off out in the woods and drove off. Poor thing."

The dog outside wagged its tail vigorously as it and the boy played tug-of-war using an old piece of rope. "If we have to give him up, you're breaking the news to Nicky."

Susan squeezed him tight for a second, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "I think we'll be fine."

Just then, Geoff's cell phone started ringing. The screen displayed the name, "Ashdown." As the phone vibrated its way across the table, he picked up a half-eaten sausage and placed it in a napkin. "Maybe you should go see if Baxter likes your cooking as much as I do."

She took the meat and smiled. "I know, I know. Important work calls and all that. At least you get rid of me in such charming ways."

A small chuckle escaped him and he answered the phone. "Wentworth, here."

"Right now I'm guessing you're done with your Sunday brunch ritual, reading the paper, and are trying decide if you should take Little Nicky to the zoo or the beach today."

"No, Hugh. I'm still eating brunch. And don't give me shit because I have stability in my life."

"What you call stability, I call a ball and chain. You know, fifteen years ago you'd still be fighting off a hangover."

Geoff laughed. "Yeah, I certainly miss that. You call me for any reason other than to tell me how much you haven't grown up?"

"Yeah. Thanks to your predictability, I know you've already read the Gitmo article."

He shook his head. "That's gonna be one hell of a PR nightmare."

"Always the pessimist. Where you see a nightmare, I see opportunity."

He paused. "Go on."

"You and your buddies in Washington can kick your spin-machine into overdrive and make this look like it could have been prevented with some new technology."

"Are you talking about our Skynet experiment again? How exactly can I make people think that a missile defense computer could have prevented a prison break?"

"I already called the programmers at Kaliba, and they said that once it's installed on every computer, cell phone, and friggin' iPod connected to the internet, it could easily track just about any form of correspondence."

"It'll never pass. You're asking me to tell America that we want to forcibly install spyware on everyone's PC that sends personal information to a government supercomputer."

"It's your job to take a shit-sandwich and sell it as a turkey club. And it won't be as hard as you're making it sound. Hell, it could practically be an addendum to the Patriot Act."

"I'll give it some thought."

"Well, don't think about it too long. Strike while the iron is hot. In a couple weeks, some dead celebrity will be making the headlines and the fear-mongering window of opportunity will be closed."

_Fear-mongering. He uses the term like it's a good thing._

"Like I said, I'll give it some thought, but I'm not sure if _I'm_ even okay with that level of invasion of privacy. Kinda hard to sell something you don't believe in yourself."

"Think of your family, Geoff."

"Don't try that crap on me, Hugh." He looked out the window as his wife fed the dog the sausage. His son gleefully hugged the animal as it chomped away at its treat. Fear-mongering; simple, shrewd, and effective. "Anyway, I need to go tend to my boring, predicable life. We'll be in touch."

He ended the call and joined his family in the back yard.

* * *

John knelt in the grass and attempted to lift a flagstone from the path that led from his house to the garage. He gripped his fingers underneath the hubcap-sized stone and pulled up, his face straining until he let out a wail of pain and gave up, clutching his bandaged chest with his hands. After a few shaky breaths and with gritted teeth, he slipped his fingers under the flat stone to make another attempt.

Cameron stooped down next to him and placed her hand on his chest. "You shouldn't exert yourself if it hurts."

"I know Allie, but I... Oh it's you."

"Yes. It's me. Allison and John-Two... Little-John left for the airport over an hour ago."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. I just had a brain fart. That's all." He sat down in the grass and looked at Cameron.

"A brain fart?"

"Never mind." He grimaced as he rubbed his sore chest. "You think you could give me a hand?"

She tilted her head. "Give you a hand? Do you need more than two?"

John pointed his face to the sky, closed his eyes and shook his head. He knew _this_ Cameron wasn't as well versed yet on slang as _his_ Cameron was, but he didn't have the patience to teach a robot how to be less frustratingly obtuse. "Seriously? Are you kidding me?"

"Yes. I'm kidding you." She reached down and effortlessly pulled the stone slab out of the ground.

When his gaze snapped back to her, he saw a coy, half-smile on her lips. "Oh. Heh." John wondered if she said it simply as a very lame joke, or if she was actually making fun of herself. He quickly decided that self-deprecating humor was beyond her understanding.

With the stone removed, John reached down and dug through the soft soil until he revealed a small wooden box inside a plastic bag. He pulled out the box and opened it. Inside was a Terminator CPU.

Cameron delicately picked it out of the box and examined it. "This is the same model CPU as mine, but the serial number is different. TOK351. Who is on it?"

_Who? _ Clearly, she didn't see it as just a chip that held some random bits of data. To her, it wasn't a wafer of silicon. It was a brother, or a sister, or a friend. Or an enemy.

"Someone who can help us win this war."

* * *

Next to her, the younger version of her husband buckled his seatbelt, and played with the tray table in front of him. The kid was probably enjoying his first flight on a commercial jet airliner. For Allison, the smell of jet fuel and the whine of the 737's twin turbofan engines reminded her of the deadly flying machines she used to hide from.

She looked out the small window as they taxied to the runway. The gigantic planes on parallel runways had lights on them that made them glow in the night and appear all too familiar. She was waiting for one of them to turn its engines vertical and start firing blinding bolts of pink or blue plasma at her.

The boy's voice pulled her out of an unpleasant flashback. "Hey. You okay?"

It was then that she noticed her hand hurt from gripping the armrest so hard. "I'm fine."

He smiled and poked her arm. "You're not gonna puke, are you? We aren't even in the air yet."

"No, Little-John. I'm not gonna to puke."

"Well, your face is all pale and--."

"Shut up."

John huffed. "Whatever." He pulled the emergency safety card from the seat-pocket in front of him and pretended to read it.

The engines on the plane spooled up to full power as it accelerated for takeoff. Allison squeezed her eyes shut, hugged herself and curled her upper body into the corner.

"Oh, man. We're hauling ass."

Allison opened one eye and saw John leaning over her seat. He looked out the window at the ground whipping past at 150 miles per hour. Her stomach dropped when the plane lifted free of the ground and pushed her into the seat.

"Ha! You feel that? It's like a rollercoaster."

With closed eyes she said, "You're going to feel my fist if you don't sit back in your seat and stop bothering me."

John slumped in his seat and crossed his arms. "Geeze. Lighten up."

A minute later the plane banked and she felt Little-John lean on her armrest again.

"Sweet. I can see downtown LA."

_This is going to be a _long_ five and a half hours._

_

* * *

_

Sarah and Cameron walked into the darkened lobby of Zeira Corp. The lavish marble and granite adornments echoed their footsteps as they approached the main reception desk. A lone security guard sat there, eyeballing them the entire time.

"Business hours are from six a.m. to seven p.m., ladies."

Sarah smiled at the middle aged guard. "We need to talk to Catherine Weaver."

"She's gone home for the day."

"Really? I hear she never sleeps. You sure she's not here?"

The guard stood up. "Lady, what makes you think that, even if she _was_ here, she'd have time to come and talk to a couple of broads off the street?"

Sarah's nostrils flared. "Broads?"

"Yeah. If you don't have an appointment, get lost. LAPD can be here in two minutes." He held up the handset from his desk phone.

Sarah stayed Cameron's hand immediately when she began to advance on the guard. If they were there to steal something, she would have let the metal girl do what she does best, but Ziera Corp. and Weaver were supposedly an ally. Best not to use the brute-force approach. Being on the bad-side of a T-1000 wasn't a good thing either.

"Sorry sir. We'll be leaving. No need to involve the cops."

Sarah turned and marched out of the lobby. Cameron followed.

As they descended the steps in the front of the building, Cameron said, "I could have taken care of the guard."

"He's just some sorry dude working a shit job for crap money. He doesn't deserve to die."

"I could have used non-lethal methods."

"Forget it. We're here to make friends, not enemies. What would we say to Weaver? 'Sorry we killed ten of your night-watch guards. Here's a chip that will solve all of your problems. John Connor says hi.'"

Cameron walked in perfect time with Sarah. "A T-One-Thousand would understand. I would."

"I bet you would. What else do you know about T-One-Thousands?"

"T-One-Thousand models are unpredictable."

Sarah stopped walking and grabbed the cyborg's arm. "What do you mean, 'unpredictable'?"

"In my future, a T-One-Thousand refused to help the resistance."

"So then what if John's wrong? What if we're just giving Skynet to them on a silver platter?"

"I trust John. And..." She turned her head slowly and looked down the street. "We're being watched."

Sarah whipped her head in the direction Cameron was looking. "What? Who? Where?"

"I don't know. Down the road. Three hundred meters. North side of the street. Two men in a black Chrysler 300."

A small amount of fog rose up from the blacktop, making it hard to see that far, but Sarah could make out a car. _Must be nice having zoom, thermal vision, and whatever other tricks she's using to see them. _Sarah immediately felt silly for feeling jealous of a robot. That's like being jealous of a hydraulic jack for being able to lift more weight, or being jealous of a motorcycle for being faster than herself. Cameron was just a fancy, walking, talking, tactical appliance. "Any idea who they are?"

"They could be government agents. Could be Zeira Corp. security. Could be someone else entirely."

"Well, let's get out of here and hope they leave us alone."

The two of them got into the Jeep and drove off. Cameron kept a watchful eye on the car in the rear view mirror. "They've pulled onto the road."

"Shit!" Sarah opened the glovebox and withdrew a Glock pistol.

Cameron made several unnecessary turns and their tail copied all of them. "They're definitely following us."

Sarah looked back. The black-as-night sedan followed closely. Whoever was in the car was no longer making any effort to stay unnoticed. In fact, it seemed like they were trying to intimidate them. "Get on the freeway. Maybe we can lose them."

Cameron took the onramp and floored it. The other car easily matched their pace.

The Jeep's engine howled as it brought them close to 80 miles per hour. "We won't be able to outrun them."

"Why not?"

"They've got a Hemi."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It's a trademark name that is in reference to the shape of the engine's combustion chamber which..." Cameron looked over at Sarah. "It means they have a much faster car."

_God damn it. Every time I'm in a chase, I always have to be in the slower car._

The Jeep lurched as it was rear-ended. The hit caused the vehicle to fishtail, but Cameron kept it under control.

"Mother fuckers! They're definitely not with the government." Sarah turned in her seat and fired a few shots out the back window.

One headlight on the car winked out and its driver backed off several hundred feet. The smell of gun-smoke quickly went away as air rushed in through the open windows and out the shattered rear one. The ringing in Sarah's ears was much more persistent though.

She wondered what the other car was up to. They were just hanging way back for the next several miles. Those goons couldn't possibly think they were stupid enough to lead them back home. Especially not after that exchange of paint and bullets.

Why did she tell the machine to get on the freeway? The Jeep could have went all kinds of places a hopped-up sedan couldn't, even in the city. Now they were stuck on an elevated roadway with nowhere to go but straight ahead. Looking back, Sarah saw the remaining headlight tilt up ever so slightly. _Oh shit. _The other car was accelerating, hard.

"Uhh, Tin-Miss?" Sarah nervously looked at Cameron, then back at the car behind them. The gap was being closed fast. The tap they had been given before was simply a warning shot. Now the big black car was aiming for a kill-shot. Did the machine even realize they were about to be crushed as though they were standing still? "Cameron!" She buckled her seatbelt and braced for impact.

With a maneuver so calculated and precise that it could only have been performed by a machine, Cameron swerved to the right just inches before contact and allowed the car to harmlessly fly by them. Then, as if part of some choreographed stunt, she reached out the driver's window, gun in hand, and shot out first the front tire, then the rear. As the final move in this automotive ballet, she cranked the wheel to the left and clipped the read quarter-panel of the Chrysler with their front bumper.

After being thrown around in her seat like a crash-test-dummy, Sarah opened her eyes to see the enemy's car sliding sideways in front of them at 120 miles per hour. The two tires that remained intact howled and smoked, while the two Cameron had blown out made a God-awful scraping sound as they shot orange sparks out at them. The car's driver was frantically turning the steering wheel trying to recover, but to no avail.

The Jeep's seatbelt prevented Sarah from nosediving into the dash as Cameron laid on the brakes and put some distance between them and the out of control car.

The car's tail clipped the center divider, causing it to spin wildly down the highway. A piece of metal shrapnel bounced off of the road and cracked the windshield of the Jeep.

A second later, the car's ruptured fuel tank burst into flames, and it left a trail of fire behind it as it continued to skid along the concrete divider wall.

Cameron followed the wreckage until it finally came to a stop with its passenger side up against the wall. Black smoke blotted out the overhead street lamp, but the orange glow from the flames lit up the roadway.

The cyborg parked the Jeep and opened her door. "Wait here."

Sarah watched though the cracked windshield as the Terminator marched toward the burning mess of twisted metal and broken glass. She never really thought Cameron looked all that intimidating or scary--definitely not compared to the vicious T-800 she once faced--but watching her slowly and rigidly approach the car, she actually felt sorry for the poor bastards within. If they were still alive. Then the car's driver side door opened.

A man covered in blood spilled out onto the road, choking and gagging. He held up a pistol and fired several shots wildly. The metal girl twitched slightly with each shot, but didn't stop walking. One bullet went wide and put a hole in the windshield of the Jeep, causing Sarah to reel back and duck beneath the dash.

She felt something warm on her face. When she wiped the crimson liquid away from her face, she winced in pain as her hand brushed over a shard of glass that was buried in her skin a quarter inch from her left eye. _That was close._

While she teased the glass from the wound, she heard a man scream. She dared not look up and see what the soulless machine was doing to the man. _He made his own bed. _

The man's terrified voice shouted, "Oh my God! You're one of them! I--" A cracking sound, then another scream.

"Who do you work for?" Cameron's voice was calm. Soothing, almost. That just made it even more creepy.

"No! Please! They'll kill me!"

"I'll kill you." _Crack. Scream._ "Slowly."

"Ah God! Okay!" The man was crying, gurgling on his own snot and drool. "Kaliba! But that's just a front. A subsidiary of Cyberd--."

A deep sounding gunshot silenced him. Sarah looked up and saw Cameron holding the man against the hood of the car, who now had only part of a head. A flaming fist punched through the spiderwebbed windshield of the crashed car and ripped it to the side.

Cameron stood back and trained her pistol on the flaming body that climbed out onto the hood. She emptied the gun into the man--thing--which did nothing.

It racked its shotgun and fired at Cameron, knocking her back. Another shot, then another. Five shots, and an empty shotgun later, Cameron was on her ass in the middle of the freeway.

The deep horn of an 18-wheeler sounded.

_This all seems very familiar. _

The cyborg composed herself and stood up just in time for the massive truck's headlights to light up her face. For a split second, Sarah swore she saw her face make an "oh shit" expression.

The truck's tires locked up a short moment after impact. A second later, Cameron's body shot out from underneath the rear tire of the trailer. Both Sarah and the flaming Terminator silently watched it play out. The wild mess of arms, legs and hair tumbled down the road like a toy until it ended up folded over the short concrete wall on the far right side of the elevated roadway. She wasn't moving.

Sarah looked at the Glock in her hand and realized its uselessness. She dropped it on the floor and scooted over to the driver's seat. _Thank God she left the engine running._

The man-shaped fireball ran at the Jeep and jumped onto the hood. Sarah threw it in reverse and stepped on the throttle. She looked back and aimed for a lamp-post. The collision sent her enemy over the roof and to the ground behind her.

The shadows around her and in the cabin of the jeep started to change direction and move on their own. _What the hell?_ But before she could formulate a theory as to what the hell was going on, the massive streetlight crashed to the ground, blocking the entire freeway. A couple cars screeched to a stop in front of the downed metal pole.

That was enough. She shifted into drive and sped off to the spot a hundred yards down the road where Cameron had been dangling on the edge of the bridge.

_Where the hell did she go?_

Sarah stopped the Jeep, trotted over to the edge and looked down. Eighty feet below, Cameron lay splayed on her back like she had finished making a snow-angel. "Gravity's a bitch. Nice knowin' ya, Tin-Miss." She ran back to her Jeep and took off, speeding past the semi-truck whose driver was searching under the trailer with a flashlight.

* * *

"Welcome to the Holiday Inn Waikiki," said the cheery receptionist behind the glossy marble-topped check-in desk.

Allison dropped her small duffel bag on the floor and pulled a credit card out of her front pocket. "The reservation should be under 'Truman.'"

The receptionist clicked her mouse a few times and tapped the keyboard in front of her while looking intently at her computer screen. "Ah, here it is. Allison and John, right?" She clicked a couple more times and reached under the counter to retrieve a printout of the contract. She placed the paper on the counter and pointed at it. "Just sign here, initial here to acknowledge the rate, and write your vehicle's license number here."

John could see a bit of apprehensiveness in Allison as she tightly gripped the pen and stared at the paper. He watched her scrape the pen across the paper and slowly draw the letters "A.T." in the initial block, then proceed to scribble some illegible cursive letters on the signature line that he could only guess spelled "Allison Truman." She stared at the line for the license number and clenched her jaw.

"It's okay," said the girl behind the desk. "If you can't remember the number, just write down the make, model, and color of the car."

Allison looked up from the paper and glanced around. "Sorry, I um..."

"No problem, Ma'am. It's late, and you're probably jet-lagged. Who can remember what generic rental car they gave you this time, right?"

Allison gave a fake singular laugh, then glanced back at John with pleading eyes. What was her problem? Then it finally clicked. The scribble signature, the initials that looked like a small child wrote them: she could probably barely write more than her own name. "Uh, honey, I remember. Give me the pen." He took the pen from her hand and wrote "Toyota Camry - White."

The receptionist took the paper and filed it. While swiping the keycards, she asked, "So, are you two here on your honeymoon?"

At the same time, John said "Yeah, something like that," while Allison tersely said, "We're here on business."

The receptionist giggled. "Well, you're in room 1408. It has a nice desk and wireless internet for taking care of business, and a big, comfy king sized bed for, taking care of _other_ business."

John laughed.

Allison shook her head in repugnance. "Do you have a room with two beds?"

"Oh, you." The receptionist smiled and flicked her wrist at Allison. "Breakfast is from six to nine right here in the lobby. The fitness center is down the hall and open twenty four hours." She slid the keycards across the counter to Allison, who then handed one to John.

"Here. Take a key and go to the room." She picked her duffel bag off the floor and shoved it into John's chest. "Take my bag, would you? _Honey?_"

"Where are you going?"

"I need to work out. Been sitting for the last six hours and I feel like a slob. Need to get the blood moving and blow off some steam. I'll be up later."

"Fine. Whatever."He headed toward the elevator, and noticed the hotel bar off to his right. _Hmm. My ID says that Mr. John "Truman" is 22 years old._

_

* * *

_

A bunch of cracks in the windshield didn't make driving home very much fun. Sarah was thankful that she didn't pass a cop and have to explain a bullet hole in the front glass, and a rear-end all smashed to hell. When she pulled into her driveway and parked the Jeep in the garage, she let out a huge breath of relief. The mission failed, the vehicle was banged up, and she was short one Terminator, but at least she was still alive. She pulled a plastic anti-static bag out of the inside pocket of her leather coat. At least she hadn't lost the chip.

She exited the garage and closed the door behind her. _Time to go debrief the General._

She crossed the street wondering what he would think. How could she have known that some third party was casing Ziera Corp.?

She let herself in the front door and saw John sitting in a chair across at the kitchen table. Maybe it was the deflated way she carried herself, or maybe it was the streak of blood running down her face, but somehow, he knew she didn't have good news. By the expression of disappointment on his face, she knew that he knew.

"John, we were ambushed." She set the anti-static bag containing the chip on the table.

"I can't believe you thought it would be simple."

"It _should_ have been simple."

"You were taking the most advanced piece of technology in existence to a liquid-metal Terminator and you thought it would be simple?"

"John..."

"Did you think you could just drop it off like a piece of mail? I told you it wouldn't work. I told you that you were acting impulsively."

"Well maybe that's how I operate! Maybe that's my way!"

"I've seen the future of 'your way.' _Your way_ is what got you shot. _Your way_ got you kidnapped and ultimately killed Charlie! Now, _your way_ fucked up another mission which was supposed to be a friendly endeavor!"

Sarah slammed her fist on the table. "_My way_ stopped Judgment Day for ten years and counting! So the next time you want to give me shit for my methods, take a look around you. This house, the neighborhood, everything you see here. Gone!"

She sat down at the table and they shared a few moments of tense silence.

"Where's Cameron?"

Sarah solemnly looked at her son. She remembered how he cried when they melted the other one. He was a big-boy now, but she knew he'd be upset. "She's gone."

His eyes opened wide. "What? What happened to her?"

"She fell off the expressway."

"No. That wouldn't stop her. I've personally seen her fall from a fourth story window and walk away like it was nothing."

"She also took a few twelve gauge rounds to the chest."

"And?"

"And a Peterbilt to the face."

He sank in his chair. "Are you sure she was dead?"

She reached over and grabbed his hand. "John, she wasn't moving. Those things don't just stop to take a break."

"M-Maybe she was in a reboot cycle. Why did you just leave her there?"

"I had to get out of there, John. There was a Terminator on my ass. Why the hell would she reboot anyway? Isn't that only when they get electrocuted or something?"

"Usually, but I guess a hard enough physical hit will knock her offline too." He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. "How long was she not moving before you took off?"

"I don't know." Sarah shook her head, staring at the table. Maybe it was less than two minutes. Everything happened so fast."

"Yeah. I bet it was less than two minutes. I'm sure she'll be back." John rested his elbows on the table and propped his forehead on his fists. He took a deep breath. "I can't lose her. Not again."

"She's not a person, John. She's not like Allison, or Kyle, or..." _or Charlie. _Did she really get her ex-fiance killed? "Machines can be replaced."

John shook his head with his fingers in his hair. "Not now, Mom. Please. Not now."

* * *

John sat on the bed channel surfing after spending an hour in the hotel bar. He would have stayed longer, but a 55 year old cougar that recently divorced her third husband was hitting on him and giving him the creeps. He shuddered as he recalled the leathery feel of her sun-damaged skin when she put his hand on her thigh.

The sound of the electric lock on the door clicked before the door swung open. Allison walked into the room with a white towel hanging around her neck. Her shirt was soaked with sweat, and her hair clung together and hung off her head like vines. "Good God, it's fuckin' humid here." She walked over and flopped face down on the bed.

"Gross! You're drenched in sweat and making the bed nasty!" John scooted over so he wouldn't touch the hot-mess of a woman. "What the hell did you do? Jump rope in the sauna?"

"I did my upper-body free weight routine, then ran eight miles on the treadmill." She dragged herself to the edge of the bed, sat up and leaned over the air conditioning unit. "What have _you_ done, LJ?" She glanced over at the balled-up Kleenex on the nightstand and scowled. "Besides a vigorous fore-arm workout."

John felt his face get hot as he grabbed the tissue and stuffed it in his pocket. "I blew my nose for God's sake!"

"Yeah, sure."

He wasn't lying, but he was well aware of how it looked, and even more painfully aware that she didn't buy it. "Seriously. I don't think I'll be able to have a sexual thought for a month after being felt-up my Mrs. Robinson at the bar."

Allison raised an eyebrow and looked back at him. "Hmph. Good." She then pulled her shirt over her head and threw it across the room next to her duffel bag.

John's jaw went slack as she leaned forward and cranked the AC unit to full-blast. She ran a finger under the elastic of her sports-bra to let in some of the cool air. It surprised him how muscular she was. He could tell by the way her clothing fit that she was in decent shape, and he'd seen Cameron's naked body the night of the time-jump, but Allison looked like a professional kick-boxer or something. Her arms had muscle-tone that surpassed his mother's. When she turned around to cool her back, the light reflecting off her sweaty skin accentuated the outline of her six-pack abs. "Wow."

She turned her head and glared at him. "Just keep thinking about Mrs. Robinson's nice, saggy--."

"Gahh, stop." He held his hands up and scrunched his face. "It's not even like that. I'm just impressed with how ripped you are. I mean, for a girl."

"For a girl?" She grinned. "This _girl _could kick _your_ scrawny ass."

He didn't want to argue since he knew it was true, several times over. She could probably kick his mom's ass. And half the guys he knew. "Ha. I'm sure you could."

This garnered a small chuckle from her as she kicked off her shoes and stood up to yank down her sweatpants. A brief moment of relief and a tiny bit of disappointment met John when he saw that she was wearing a pair of workout shorts underneath.

After a few seconds of standing with her back to the air-conditioner, she made a sour face and rubber her lower abdomen. "Think I maybe hit it a little too hard tonight."

"Feeling sick?"

"Kinda. Might just be a side effect of that airplane food. In any case, you'd better use the bathroom if you need to. I'll be in there a while."

John shook his head as he got up to walk to the bathroom. "You're the grossest girl I know."

"What?" She laughed. "I'm just gonna take a shower!"

"Yeah, sure," he said from behind the closed bathroom door.

He finished up and exited the bathroom wearing only his boxers and a T-shirt. He tossed his pants and socks into a pile next to his bag and started climbing into bed.

Allison put her hands on her hips. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Umm. People in the civilized world call this going to bed." He wasn't sure why he'd decided to take a cheap shot, but regretted it when Allison crossed her arms and scowled at him.

"The bed's mine."

"There's only one bed. Where the hell am I supposed to sleep?"

She motioned her hand to the ground. "Floor's all yours."

* * *

Cameron's vision came back to her thirty seven milliseconds after her cognitive functions came online. She stared straight up at the roadway she had recently been standing on. Her last complete memory was being hit by a 1998 Peterbilt model 379.

She stood up and immediately noticed severe structural damage to her right leg. The knee joint was binding at 22 percent of its range of motion, and the lower section of the leg was bent in the middle. Her left arm was completely immobile. She could use her right arm to actuate the left, but it would not move on its own, indicating a severed motor-control connection.

A check of her chronometer indicated that she had lost 120 seconds, exactly as expected.

She surveyed the area and saw no way to access the elevated roadway. The nearest on-ramp was over a mile away. Sarah Connor would have to defend herself. The priority now was to return to John Connor and ensure his survival.

As she began to walk, she searched for something to hold in place the large, dangling slab of flesh that was peeled back from half of her cranial case.

_My face is important. I need to fix it to look human._

A needle and thread, or a staple-gun would be useful, but there were none nearby. She approached a fence with razor-wire coiled around the top.

_Not ideal, but it will work as a temporary solution. _

She reached up and ripped loose a section of the razor-wire, then straightened it. She held her face in her palm and moved the slab of flesh such that the eye-hole lined up with her optic sensor. Once it was in position, she wrapped the wire around her head 5 times and tucked the remaining length under one of the loops.

The wind picked up and blew her shredded clothing about her body, exposing the skin beneath, and in several places, shining metal coated in blood. This was not acceptable. She was also missing a boot. It's unusual for humans to wear only one shoe. She would need a new set of footwear as well.

Seeing no clothing nearby, she walked along the length of the elevated highway, keeping out of the amber glow of the street-lights. With each step, she limped.

As she approached the intersection of two surface streets, she spotted three females standing and waving at passing cars. They all dressed in clothing that was designed to attract attention by accentuated their feminine features. The one on the right most closely matched Cameron's physical dimensions.

As she approached the three females, one of them pointed in her direction . "Look at dis bitch over here. She limpin'. Dat Shawdna?"

One of the female's acquaintances said, "Can't tell when she over in da shadows. Look like some John done fucked her up though."

The woman was incorrect. Her name was not Shawnda, and she had not been fucked by John.

"Shawnda? You all right girl? If some punk-ass cracka got all rough wit--."

As Cameron stepped into the light of the streetlamp the female screamed.

_Perhaps my disguise is inadequate._

The three females all attempted to run. Their speed was largely hindered by their inefficiently designed footwear. Fortunately, the one matching Cameron's dimensions twisted her ankle after eight steps and fell to the ground. Even with her reduced mobility, Cameron was easily able to grab the woman.

The female's two friends offered no help to their downed comrade, and continued running as Cameron dragged her by the neck back into the shadows under the overpass. Human allegiance is fickle.

Cameron applied pressure to the woman's neck until she passed out from lack of oxygen. Killing her would be more efficient, but John would disapprove.

Upon removing the woman's clothes, Cameron noted that the human was actually male.

_Interesting. Fooled me._

* * *

**Notes:  
Three Easter eggs in this chapter. See if you can spot them. Hint: Two are T1/T2 references, and one is a Stephen King Reference. **

**Thanks to JMHthe3rd for beta-reading.  
**


	7. The Floor Was So Comfortable

**Author's Note:  
Since quite a few people have mentioned that they thing Little-John is out of character since he didn't act as immature in the show, even in the first season. I'm aware of this, and it is intentional. It's a choice I made in order to differentiate between Big-John and Little-John, especially when they are in the same scene. Also, it's kind of a callback to the spunky, sarcastic T2-John. **

**I hope it's not too distracting. Also, it's possible that he's had some weight taken off of his shoulders since Big-John is there to be the leader he was afraid of becoming, so he's loosened up a little.**

**Anyway, thanks to JMHthe3rd for beta-reading this short chapter. **

* * *

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 7 – The Floor Was So Comfortable**

John tossed and turned on the hard floor of the hotel room, the thin blanket he'd laid out offering little in the way of padding. Time ticked away slowly. The hours passed by with excruciating lethargy. He'd gotten up to use the bathroom three times, not because he needed to, but because it offered a refreshing change from staring at the ceiling and studying the textured shadows on the carpet cast by the light seeping in under the door. Why couldn't they have gotten a hotel near the beach? At least then he could listen to the ocean instead of the typical hotel sounds: random doors slamming, the ice-machine down the hallway kicking on every twenty minutes, the 'ding' of the elevator. He was pretty sure the people in the room next door had sex about an hour ago.

Allison sure didn't have trouble sleeping though. Five minutes after the lights went out, her breathing turned to the deep breaths that one makes when sound asleep. Asleep in a nice, big, soft, comfortable, warm bed. It wasn't fair. He was supposed to be the leader. He was supposed to be the savior of humanity. Why was the King on the floor when the Queen got the bed? Hell, not even the Queen. Queen-in-law. Sort of.

_Just fall asleep God damn it!_

He flipped his pillow to the cool side for the umpteenth time and rolled on to his side.

"No," said a voice from the bed.

John froze and listened. Allison's breathing had changed from long and deep to shorter and more belabored. The sheets on the bed made a rustling sound. One of her breaths produced a soft, sad sounding moan. A few seconds later, she mumbled, "Please stop."

Suddenly John didn't envy being asleep.

The painful moans became more frequent, and so did the mumblings: "hurts... not again... too deep... hate you..." Before long, she was flat out crying.

_Jesus._

A typical day in Allison's life probably made his worst seem like a picnic. He couldn't imagine what filled her nightmares. He sat up and looked over at her. Moonlight lit her face and revealed shimmering streaks running from her eyes back to her ears. "Psst! Allison. Wake up."

Her choked whimpers continued. "Please, not there..."

Seeing that she wasn't going to wake up from anything short of shouting loud enough to wake the neighbors, John climbed onto the bed and grabbed on to Allison's shoulders. His voice was a loud whisper. "Allison! Wake! Up!"

She thrashed fiercely as he pinned her shoulders down. Her eyes opened and she screamed.

_Shit! Someone's gonna call the cops!_

He shushed her and held a hand over her mouth. "Damn it. Stop fighting me."

Her eyes were wide open, filled with terror and tears. She shook her head violently screamed again into his hand.

"SHHH! It's me! It's me."

Suddenly, as if a switch was turned off, she was silent and still. He removed his hands from her mouth and shoulder, and leaned back a little.

Her breathing was still heavy and fast, and her eyes still bulging, overflowing with moisture. She sat up in the bed and stared at the boy. "Oh, God. John..." She reached out and hugged him.

_John? Not "Little-John" or "LJ?"_

He could feel her body trembling. "It's ok. I've got you now, Allie. I've got you." That must have been the right thing to say, because she then squeezed him tightly.

He held on to her and patted her back slightly. After what seemed like an awkwardly long amount of time, he relaxed his arms and let go of her. She didn't follow suit. Her hands rubbed up and down his back. One hand was combing through the hair on the back of his head.

_Okay. This is getting weird. _

"Allis--." His words were shocked right out of him when he felt her hot breath and soft lips on his neck. John quickly pushed himself out of the hug and backed up on the bed. "Wait. No." He shook his head. "No, no, no. This is all wrong. I'm not him."

Her face beheld a look of shock, which slowly dissolved into sadness. "Most of the time you're not." She looked down and pulled her knees to her chest. "But other times you are."

"No. I'm not. How do you not get that?" He watched as she rested her face on her knees. Why couldn't anything be simple?"Look, I know this must be weird for you, considering we fall in love and get married in a few years. Or twenty. However the hell you measure time. But I'm not him." His voice grew incrementally deeper and more commanding. "I _don't_ love you." Why did that sound so harsh? He didn't love her. And why should he? Because she was hot? Because fate said he was supposed to? Fuck fate. He'd known her only a couple days and she'd shown him nothing but contempt. Still, he felt bad saying it. Her eyes were so expressive, and right now they were confused and hurting.

Seemingly to herself, she whispered, "Of course you don't." She turned her head away and stared out at the full moon for minute. "One day I skipped my veterinarian classes and drove out to Palmdale."

"Palmdale? So what?"

"It's where I'm from." She continued to gaze out the window as she spoke. "I pretended to bump into my mom at the supermarket. I tired to make small talk, about the weather, rising canned-food prices, the cute stock-boy, anything. She just blew me off with one-word responses and annoyed glances." She looked at him. "My own mother! She used to talk to me for hours about anything and nothing, tell me stories, teach me about classical music... That day, she acted like I was a stray dog, just trying to get rid of me."

John swallowed. "I'm sorry. That must've been hard."

"You have no idea." Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. "To love someone who wants nothing to do with you. It's not hard. It's heartbreaking. I started to feel that a minute ago when you were holding me." She wiped her face. "I'm sorry. I know it means nothing to you, and I'm an idiot for putting this on you. But some times, when you act a certain way, or say a certain thing, it all clicks and I can't help but see the man I love when I look at you."

"But it's not how it is with your parents. Your _real_ husband is back in California, probably missing you." He thought about how he'd feel if they'd traveled back in time instead of forward. Meeting a young version of his mother that was too busy waiting tables than to talk to him would definitely take its toll. "But, I think I understand."

A belabored smile crawled across her face. "Thanks."

A few moments of silence passed. "Well, if it's all the same to you, Allison, can we just go back to hating each other?"

"Ha! Yeah." She sniffled and rubbed her eyes again. "That's probably for the best."

John playfully shoved her shoulder with his fist. "Bitch."

She swatted away his hand and smiled. "Brat."

John chuckled and started to climb back down to the floor when Allison grabbed his arm. "Hey. It's a big bed. I think we stay out of each other's space."

John nodded cautiously. "Okay. Thanks." He slid under the covers and laid down. "Are you sure you can keep your hands off me? I mean, I'm pretty irresistible. Especially to you."

Allison simply rolled away from him and sighed. "Goodnight, LJ."

* * *

Sarah poured some more rum into her glass. "A T-Six-Hundred? What's that?"

John finished off the last swallow that was left in his glass and tapped it against the table, indicating he wanted a refill. "It's like a crappy version of a Terminator. Big, slow, and dumb. I think they run Windows 95 on 'em or somethin'."

Sarah giggled a little while she sloshed some of the tan liquid into his glass, and some on the table. After John took a sip and harshly cleared his throat, he sucked in air through pursed lips. "They're still tough as hell though."

Sarah wiped the spilled booze with the sleeve of her shirt. "But not made out of super-duper unbreakabillium like the Tin-Miss?"

"No. Titanium or somethin'. They're like eight feet tall and have rubber Halloween masks on their head." He swirled his glass. "I can't believe Skynet thought it could fool people with 'em."

"So they're pretty much the brainless, 'roided-up meat-heads at the Skynet-gym?"

John laughed. "Yeah. Skynet doesn't even trust 'em with plasma guns. Makes 'em use belt-fed miniguns."

Sarah laughed as her son made fun of the inferior Terminator model. Certainly, it could still cause all kinds of mayhem, and she'd never want to be on the receiving end of a minigun, but it felt good to belittle the enemy. She held up her glass and waited for John to do the same. "Here's to making scrap out of idiot robots." Their glasses clinked. "You said you scrapped six of those things that night, right?"

"Did I say six? I meant nine. And a Triple-Eight."

Sarah grinned and shook her head. "You're so full'a shit, John."

"Ah, my memory's foggy." He waived his hands in dismissal. "One thing that ain't bullshit though, is that my Allie beat one to death with a metal rod. Jammed it right through the sum'bitch's eye."

"She sounds like a hell of a fighter." Sarah rubbed her jaw. "Found that out the hard way."

"She hit you?"

"It was just a little tap. She caught me off guard. I was sleeping. I let her hit me. And she had a bazooka."

"Now who's full'a shit?"

Sarah laughed against her glass as she took another drink from it. She tried to remember the last time she had such an open and relaxed conversation with her son. She couldn't.

Sarah gulped the rest of her rum. "Well, I think I'm gonna go pass out on my couch." She stood up and swayed and grabbed the table for balance. "Woah. Maybe _your_ couch."

"Take it easy, Mom." He snickered. "You sure you can make it all the way to the living room?"

"Hey! Don't make fun of your mother." She pointed a scolding finger at him. "I was drinking when you were still a fetus." Sarah stood as straight as she could and stared at the couch in the next room. There seemed to be a lot of open ground to cover with nothing to hang on to. And why did the couch keep moving back and forth?

"Mom? Mom!"

The next thing she knew, she was being helped up off the floor. Why? The floor was so comfortable. Her arm was around John's shoulder as he helped her across the great open plains of the living room to the blurry couch.

As they made their way, a car pulled up in the alley. Sarah sobered herself a bit and staggered over to the kitchen window. Out of the 1964 Impala low-rider stepped a woman wearing an extremely slutty miniskirt and shiny black boots that went halfway up her thighs. What the hell was up with her head?

The puppy outside went ape-shit as the woman limped past its kennel and came inside the back door. The Tin-Miss had sure seen better days. Red spots were soaking into her clothes, and the barbed wire wrapped around her bloody head made her look like something out of a horror-movie.

John approached her. "Cameron! I'm so glad you're okay!" He hugged her.

The machine's exposed red eye changed to blue for a second, then back to red.

"Okay?" Sarah leaned against the sink. "She looks like hell!"

"I'm not one hundred percent."

Sarah couldn't decide if this sight was terrifying or hilarious. Maybe it was both. "What the hell did you do? Roll a hooker and steal her pimp's car?"

The cyborg looked to Sarah. "Yes." She slowly pushed John away with her working arm. "Your breath indicates a blood alcohol level of zero point one six percent."

John grinned. "Yeah, I got a lil' Captain in me."

"I'll need repairs." She poked at her limp arm. "I may need help."

John nodded. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Sarah vomited in the sink.

Cameron looked over at Sarah then back to John. "Is she pregnant?"

* * *

**Notes:**

**Short chapter, but I felt the two scenes complemented each other since they both cover two pairs of people sort of bonding in the night. The next chapter will be the new day, so I felt combining it all didn't feel right.**

**A few self-indulgent ripped-off lines in this one. Sorry about that. I couldn't help myself. ;)**

**Thanks for reading.**


	8. Endoskeletons in the Closet

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 8 – Endoskeletons in the Closet**

Allison drove the rental car while John fiddled with the radio. For some reason he was expecting nothing but "island-music" but there were a surprising number of pop, rock, and alternative stations. Unfortunately, every time he stopped on a station for more than two seconds, Allison vetoed it: "Garbage. Not music. Nothing but screaming. Sounds like someone whining to a tune. Nails on a chalkboard."

_For God's sake. Does she just not like music at all?_

When the radio reached the top of the F.M. range and restarted at the bottom end, the auto-seek tuner stopped on 90.2. A grainy sounding solitary piano piece was playing. John sighed and reached to hit the "Seek" button again.

Allison slapped his hand away. "This is the first real music we've heard." She gave John a scolding look. "And you _don't _change the channel when a Chopin piece is on."

John leaned back in his seat and rolled his head back with his mouth agape. "Classical is _so_ boring!"

"Boring? You know how many people would roll over in their grave if they knew you called 'Ballade Number One' _boring_?"

"Three?"

"Just shut up and listen. Appreciate the key changes, the tempo modulation, the..." She shook her head and stared ahead at the highway.

John sat with his arms crossed and pretended not to be entertained. He couldn't deny that when he actually paid attention and listened, the song, the piece, the whatever-you-wanna-call-it, it actually did have a lot of interesting changes and stuff. It sort of told a story with nothing but music. Of course, he wasn't going to let Allison know he was enjoying it.

When the Chopin piece ended and another one started, Allison crinkled her nose and sneered at the radio. "Okay. Change it."

John raised an eyebrow and looked over at her. "Wow. Really? Even _I_ recognize this one."

"Please." Allison rolled her eyes. "Beethoven makes me sick." She reached over and punched the "Seek" button. "I hate that overrated sack of shit." The next station played a heavy guitar riff, followed by a pause, a baseline, then more heavy, distorted guitaring. "Christ." She shook her head and reached for the button again. "I forgot how much worse the alternative is."

"Wait!" John caught her hand. "I listened to your shit, now you listen to my shit."

"Yeah. Shit is a pretty good word for this."

John huffed. "It's not shit, it's 'Rage.'"

"Rage? Oh yeah, that sounds pleasant."

"The full name is..." He leaned forward and grinned at Allison. "Rage Against The Machine."

Allison pulled her hand away from the radio and placed it back on the steering wheel. "Hmph." The tiniest of grins—tiny enough to make even Cameron look like The Joker—tugged at her mouth. "Well, I suppose I could give it a listen."

John laughed inwardly. Nothing like a little word association to swing the argument in his favor. "You'll like it, I promise. While it's not so much a masterpiece of music like the Ludwig Van—."

"I swear, I'm gonna punch you."

"Chopin! Chopin. Sorry. God." John held his hands up in a _'Don't shoot'_ manner. "'Rage' is more about raw power and emotion. When you listen to it, it just makes you want to go out there and kick some ass." He looked at the speedometer. "See? It's already caused you to speed up."

Allison glanced at the gauges, and under her breath she said, "Damn it." She lifted her foot off the gas pedal. "So, what's the name of this machine-raging song? 'Kick Their Metal Ass'?"

"Ha! Close. It's 'Killing In The Name Of.'"

"I don't get it. Killing in the name of who?"

"Whom."

"What?" She thinned her eyes at him. "Are you being a wise-ass? You know, I'm not above making you ride in the trunk."

John couldn't help but grin widely now. "Just shut up and listen." He twisted the volume knob up a couple notches.

Despite her protests, her thumbs tapping against the steering wheel told John she was enjoying it. Even if she didn't realize she was enjoying it. For fear of the cramped, dark trunk, he decided not to point that out.

A couple minutes later, the song was reaching its crescendo, and the vulgar refrain for which it's known. John was really getting into it at this point, slapping his hands against the dash, and bobbing his whole upper body to the beat. "Sing along, Allison. Rage along! _*Fuck you! I won't do what you tell me!*_"

Allison grinned a little and looked over at John.

"C'mon, Allison! What do you tell 'The Man' when he starts barking orders at you? _*Fuck you! I won't do what you tell me!*_"

Allison was rapping her hands on the steering wheel with increasing energy. John could tell she was about to let loose. She just needed a little more push. "What do you tell the metal bastards when they tell you to march? _*Fuck you! I won't do what you tell me!*_ When they tell you to jump, do you say 'how high'? No! You pick up a God damned plasma rifle and tell them—."

Allison cut him off. "Fuck you! I won't do what you tell me!" She repeated the lyric in-time with the music. She shouted it straight ahead, at John, at a car she passed rather aggressively, "Fuck you! I won't do what you tell me!" Over and over until the refrain ended. She and John laughed together for the remainder of the song.

"See? I told you it wasn't 'shit.'"

"All right, all right," she said, still chuckling. "You win this one. Don't expect that to happen very often."

Just then the song ended and the radio started playing something by Nickelback. Simultaneously, they both said, "Oh God," and reached for the "Seek" button.

* * *

John slowly made his way down the stairs into his basement. The light bulb that hung from its wire near the bottom of the stairs was bright. Too bright. He squinted and shaded his eyes from the cruel light. Why did he drink so much last night? He hardly ever drank. He felt as if he had a size-five brain crammed into a size-two head.

Cameron's blood-stained miniskirt lay on the floor, neatly folded, along with the boots she'd stolen from the prostitute. Next to the clothes was a small Styrofoam cooler which contained ice, her face, and what looked like an arm-length glove made out of flesh.

Around the corner, Cameron sat at his workbench. The barbed wire was removed from her head, as well as half of her face. Her whole left arm had been stripped of its skin, and she was checking its wiring with a multi-meter. The harsh shadows cast by the single incandescent bulb made the basement seem like the lair of a mad scientist. The half-woman, half-machine was Frankenstein's latest experiment.

She turned her head to John. "I think I've isolated the wiring conduit that's been damaged." She unscrewed the piston that acted as her bicep and placed it on the bench.

It was so odd watching her perform surgery on herself. "Oh yeah?" He walked over and stood next to her.

She removed a protective conduit cover and fished out some frayed wiring. "I can't repair this with only one hand." One of her eyes politely asked for help and invited him to have a seat, while the other showed nothing but a faint red glow.

John pulled up a stool and sat next to her. He inspected the severed wires for a moment, then pulled open a drawer and removed a soldering iron. While waiting for the iron to heat up, he stripped some of the wiring and touched the bare copper leads together. Cameron's hand made a metallic clink as her fingers snapped shut in a tight fist. Her hand shook and the servo-motors groaned.

"Wrong wires," she said.

John pulled the wires apart and her hand went limp again. "Sorry. They're all the same color."

"It's okay." She gave him a reassuring smile with what was left of her face. "Just try another combination."

When he twisted two other wires together her fingers twitched slightly, then moved smoothly as she wiggled them. "Looks like that one worked."

He twisted another pair together and she was able to rotate her wrist. "Why does Skynet use all the same color?"

"It's more efficient. Why use separate spools of different colored wire when they all function equally?"

"But doesn't that make it harder to make repairs like this? Even for another machine?"

"We're not designed to be repaired if there is too much damage." She looked away and picked up the soldering iron.

"What? Too much damage?"

She held the iron on the bare part of the wires and fused them together. "Skynet has decided that if our damages are extensive enough to compromise internal wiring, then we are not worth repairing."

John's jaw went slack. "That's actually kind of... sad."

Cameron stuffed the repaired wiring back into its place, and replaced the bicep-piston. "Skynet doesn't feel sadness. If it requires fewer resources to build new than to rebuild, we're dismantled for spare parts, then scrapped. We're replaceable. Disposable."

He shook his head in disgust. He hated the thought of Cameron being treated like an old car in a junkyard. Skynet was a monster, even to its own. "Well, that's not what we do with human soldiers. We don't leave people behind, and we fight for each and everyone's life, no matter how little chance of survival they have." He held her metal fingers. "Cameron, you'll never be too damaged for me to try to fix."

A smile came to her half-face, and her exposed optic sensor changed from the faint red to bright blue. "Thank you." Servo-motors whirred when she curled her fingers around his. "It pleases me that I'm valuable to you."

John gave her hand a final squeeze then let go. "How about we look at that leg. You were limping pretty bad last night."

Cameron scooted back on her stool and put her foot up on the workbench. The flesh on the leg was ripped up and mangled. Abrasions and scrapes went down to the metal "bone," and a section near her ankle had a rod poking through the skin. "My knee joint is binding, and the ankle actuator is broken. I may not be able to repair it."

She took a utility knife from the bench and made a circumferential cut in her thigh. Once completed, she slid her fingers under the flesh and pushed the skin down her leg like a stocking.

John cringed. "You— er, the 'you' from my timeline, told me that you have sensation. You feel. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"So, doesn't that hurt?"

She thought for a moment. "Yes."

John reeled back. Was she making another joke? How could she just cut herself apart if... "Jesus. Cameron. You can feel pain?"

"Not like you do. It's just sensory data." She pulled the flesh-stocking from her foot and tossed it into the cooler with her other articles of meat-clothing. "Pain data doesn't bother me like it would a human."

John scratched his head. "I-I suppose that makes sense. What about other sensations?"

She wiped the blood off her knee with a rag. "Just data. Although some sensations are more interesting than others."

John raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Wind. Feeling air rushing over my skin produces a very interesting stream of data." She attempted to bend her knee which produced a metallic grinding noise in the joint. "So does rain. And objects with interesting textures, like a pineapple or sand." She removed a small setscrew from the center pin of the knee, which allowed the main bolt to be turned. Using a socket, she loosened the bolt and removed it. After disconnecting the wiring harness the lower leg pulled off effortlessly.

John looked closely at the top of the removed leg. "Damn. The joint is completely deformed. Looks like it's cracked too."

"I won't be able to fix it," she said apathetically.

John frowned. It was like being there in a hospital when the doctor told your friend that they would have to amputate her limb. Except she was the doctor _and_ the patient. And she didn't seem to care.

"I'll contact some machine-shops and send them blueprints for the parts I need. The materials won't be as strong, but—."

"Wait." John stood up and walked over to the storage area under the stairs. "Will a T-Tripple-Eight lower leg fit you?"

"You have spare parts? From Cromartie?"

He moved a couple small boxes. "And Vick."

"It's doubtful that they will be the same size as mine. But I could take them apart and use some components. The T-888 ankle shaft is slightly longer than mine though, so in order to make it work I'll have to also swap the main lower-leg strut."

"You'll be a couple inches taller?" John grinned and moved another box from the stack.

"Yes. I'll have to buy new pants."

John chuckled a little. "Won't your cool new boots cover any difference?" He gestured with his head to the hooker-boots on the floor.

Cameron grinned. "You like them?"

"Not as much as Little-John will." He pulled one more box off the stack, which surprised him with its weight. A sharp pain shot through his chest and he dropped the box. His hand went to his ribs, and rubbed that area which had been stabbed by the imaginary knife.

"Damn it. What a mess." He lightly kicked the box which had scattered its contents across the concrete floor.

One of the items caught his eye. It was a portfolio which had come open and spilled several papers and photographs. "What the hell is..." He bent down picked up a bundle of papers, some Polaroid photographs, and an ID that were all clipped together.

John scraped some dried blood off of the ID and read the name: Daniel Frederick Grissam. The name sounded familiar. He was about to ask Cameron if she knew the name when it hit him.

_Oh no. _

He flipped through the pictures, which showed a terrified, naked man tied to a pillar in what he guessed was some abandoned warehouse. In each successive picture he looked more and more battered and beaten. John felt a sickness stir in his stomach.

_Allie. How could you?_

John's eyes welled with tears and he put a hand over his mouth. He understood that she would want to take revenge on the man that had imprisoned her as a slave for seven years, but he didn't want to think of his wife as a murderer. This Grissam guy may have had it coming in her future, and hell, he probably would have helped her kill _that _miserable son of a bitch. But the thirty one year old guy in the pictures hadn't done anything yet, and if they prevented Judgment Day, he never would.

"Is something wrong, John?"

John quickly wiped his eyes and stuffed the papers back into the box. "Uh, I just lifted something a little too heavy." He shoveled the rest of the box's contents back into it and shoved it aside. "I'll be there in a sec. I know I have two Trip-Eight legs around here somewhere."

* * *

Robert Brewster pushed the sanding block back and forth along the overturned hull of his project sailboat. Next to chopping firewood, sanding was the best way he knew how to take out a little frustration. His knuckles were white as he ground the block into the wood. Pushing and pulling. Back and forth. Sweat dripped from his eyebrows and congealed in the fine wood-powder he was creating.

_Fucking newspaper._

It was bad enough reading about how his daughter shot her way out of Gitmo, but he knew a follow-up story would be run about the "negligent military father who raised a terrorist."

_Fucking reporters._

The vigor of his sanding caused the sandpaper to rip free of the block. He cursed and whipped the chunk of wood at the wall, causing a couple tools to fall from their pegboard hooks. Leaning against the boat with both hands, he hung his head and sighed. The sound of the surf washing in a hundred feet away started to calm his nerves a bit, but that sound was interrupted by the crunching of gravel as a car pulled into his driveway.

The ex general gritted his teeth and slid a wood-chisel into the back pocket of his cargo-shorts. He heard the knock at the front door as he snuck out the back door of his garage, and crept around the side of his house. If that sensationalist prick was back with more loaded questions, he was going to...

He peered around the corner and saw a pair of young adults. They certainly weren't journalists. Not unless they worked for some high school or college newspaper. His posture eased and he casually approached the two. "Can I help you?"

The boy turned to him first. "General Brewster?"

"Been a long time since I've worn that title, son. What's your name?"

"John C—. John Truman, sir. This is my sister, Allison. We were wondering if we could have a word with you about your daughter, Katherine."

The kid was hiding something, and not just his real name. The secrecy was mildly intriguing, and if it weren't for that, he'd have chased them off his property at the first mention of Katherine. He'd play along, for now.

"I can't tell you any more than you'll be able to read about in tomorrow's paper. Just look for a headline that says something about a workaholic father who was blind to his kid's 'extracurricular activities.'"

"Whatever you told the press, the cops, the FBI..." John crossed his arms. "It's all bullshit."

Either this kid was completely full of shit, or he actually _did_ know something. Could he be one of Katherine's contacts? "Bold statement, kid. First of all, how do you know what I've told them, and how would you know I'm lying?"

"What you told them is bullshit because if you'd told them the truth, you'd be in a nuthouse."

Well, he was right about that. Still, Katherine hadn't contacted him in years, so why would one of her lackeys be knocking on his door? He needed to cut the crap, and get to the bottom of this. "Okay, John _Truman._ You're the expert on what I know, so why don't you tell me something I _don't_ know."

The boy took a step closer to him. "My real name is John Connor. Katherine ever mention that name?"

She had. In fact, it was the one name he was supposed to trust without question if he ever came knocking. It didn't make sense though. He should be Katherine's age. And she'd never said anything about a sister. Best to keep playing dumb. "Look kid, whatever you think you know—."

"Bobby The Brew-Meister!" shouted a voice from the alley between the houses. Robert's neighbor walked up from the beach, dripping wet and clutching his surf-board. "The waves are extra tasty today! You gotta..." He stopped walking when he saw John and Allison. "Oh hey, man. Didn't know you had company."

"Yes, Keanu. If you don't mind, I—."

Keanu was immediately at Robert's side. "Dude. This ain't your daughter is it? She must get her looks from her mom, right?" The back of his hand slapped Robert's shoulder. "Just messin' with ya, dude." He glanced into the garage. "Oh, hey. Showing off the Love Boat? This thing gonna be done before the Apocalypse? Ha!"

"Keanu..."

"That's the idea, right? Robots can't swim, right? I'll be right out there with ya, man." He patted his well-worn surfboard. Hangin'-ten on old Linda-Lou."

Robert ignored the buffoon and turned back to John and Allison. "Let's take this conversation inside."

As the three of them entered the house and closed the door, the man outside shouted, "Check ya later, Brew-Man!"

Robert leaned against the door and laughed nervously. "Sorry about that. Keanu's had a few too many 'bogus dismounts' I think. But he sells the best green on the island."

Allison took a step toward him and scowled. "So, you'll tell your stoner, beach-bum neighbor about Judgment Day, Skynet, and the Terminators, but you're playing dumb with us?"

If they were phonies, they would have thought Keanu's comments to be the asinine ramblings of a pothead. Maybe they really were who they said they were. "Okay, you got me. I know about certain things that only a few people in the entire world know about, and that even fewer believe." He lifted his chin and looked down his nose at his visitors. "The question then, is how do _you_ know about those things?"

"I already told you. I'm John Connor."

Allison added, "And I'm from the future."

"The future. Right." Something told him the woman wasn't lying. Call it a hunch. Call it intuition. Call it a gut feeling. Still, he wasn't one to take chances. "If you're from the future, why don't you, umm..." He pulled back the curtain and looked out at the sky. "...tell me if it's going to rain tonight."

She huffed and looked away. "That's a bullshit question."

Robert grinned. "Bullshit because you're not from the future, and you can't answer it?"

"No." She made sharp eye contact with him. "Bullshit because that's like asking you what the weather was like in Tokyo on March 5th, 1986."

He crossed his arms and took a deep breath. "Fair enough." The back and forth charade of ignorance wasn't getting anything accomplished. It was time to cut to the chase. He sat down on a chair and gestured his hand to offer the couch to his guests. "Okay. Let's just pretend that I know what you think I know, and you are who you say you are. What do you want from me?"

The boy sat on the edge of the seat and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "We need to know if you or your daughter knows anything about who creates Skynet."

"Hmph. That's easy." His gaze dropped to the floor. "I do."

The boy and his "sister" shared a glance at each other, then looked back to him.

"I mean, I was supposed to. In 2003."

John tipped his head to the side. "What do you mean, 'supposed to'?"

Robert leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. "Skynet was ready to go online. We were all set up to plug its mainframe into the internet and let it become one big, collective intelligence. It was brilliant, really. A small program running silently in the background of millions of computers, each one acting like a single neuron in a brain. Supposedly, it could have countered any terrorist attack, any ballistic missile, anything anyone could think to throw at us. One big safety-net in the sky."

The boy was listening intently. Robert had never told this story to anyone who took it seriously. At least not while sober. "So what happened? What stopped it in 2003?"

"My daughter. She warned me. I would have never believed her, but the guy she was with—this huge dude—he peeled his face back and showed me what he really was. He was like an advanced version of some of the conceptual drawings I'd seen from Cyberdyne. Robotic warriors that would supposedly replace human soldiers. It all started to click. We would build a robot army, hand over control to a computer system, and they'd turn on us. Oh, but first they'd nuke the fuck out of us. I put the kibosh on it the next day."

"They just let you shut it down?"

He shrugged. "I was head of the Cyber Research Division. Don't think I didn't take a fair amount of heat for shutting down a project that had already run deep into nine-figure territory. And it wasn't really killed; just mothballed. Last I heard before I was booted from the Air-Force, General Ashdown was working with some senator to try to get it revived."

"They booted you for wasting money?" John gave a smug grin. "I thought that's what the military was best at."

"Bite your tongue, son. The 'wasteful military' is the reason you have the right to say that." He swallowed and continued. "But no. I was booted because they thought I was working with, and feeding info to Katherine, who decided to go all 'Sarah Connor' on Cyberdyne."

John's jaw dropped.

"Don't act so surprised. If you are who you say you are, you know exactly what I mean, and why she did it. It sunk Cyberdyne as a company too. Too much capital damage. Too many lawsuits from injured and killed employees and their families. I did a stint in Guantanamo Bay because they decided I was working with her. When they decided I wasn't, they gave me a settlement check and I moved here. Now you're up to speed. What are you bringing to the table?" He looked to Allison. "Or how about you, future-girl?"

"Well, in my future, Judgment Day still happens, but not until 2011. And your daughter is a hero. She's the one who rallied people together and taught them all to rage against the machines."

"Heh. That's my girl." Robert put his hands over his face. "But Skynet still goes online, and we still all die. Hopefully a small island in the Pacific is one of the last places they invade."

"So you're just giving up?" Allison glared at him. "You're a coward, and the Katherine Brewster I know would be ashamed. We still have four years to stop this thing."

The old general sighed. "I wish I could do more." He shook his head. "Every move I make is tracked. I'm pretty sure someone's keeping track of how many gallons of gas I buy each week, how many time a year I eat at Mel's Kitchen, and which brand of God damned toothpaste I use. If I try to buy a gun, a plane ticket, or even try to drop off the grid, it'll set off a dozen red-flag alarms somewhere and they'll be on me like flies on shit."

John stood up. "Sir, you've helped more than you think. You mentioned a general that was trying to revive Skynet, and a senator that was working with him. Do you know which senator?"

Robert nodded. "Senator of California. Geoff Wentworth. He and Ashdown go way back. College room-mates I think. They never really saw eye-to-eye on the Skynet program though, so I—."

"They will." Allison stood up as well. "I'm guessing around early 2011."

John turned to her. "I bet you're right. We need to make a couple phone calls."

* * *

Catherine Weaver sat at a stainless steel desk at the end of a long, polished, corner-office. Everything in the office was meticulously placed and organized as if laid out by an anal-retentive perfectionist. Even the pieces of modern artwork on the wall, which were supposed to impart a feeling of beauty in randomness, were evenly spaced, symmetrical, and sterile.

On her computer screen was a list of viable artificial intelligence platforms currently under development. Her sources were proving to be quite reliable, for humans. There were dozens of projects that could very well be sentient computer systems, most of which were pet projects of leading electronics companies like Intel, Honda, General Electric, among others. After reading the details of each of those projects, she wasn't convinced that any of them were even close to becoming self-aware.

There were a very select few however, that had the basic architecture to achieve such a level of technological evolution. One was the Kaliba-Cyberdyne project, Skynet, contracted through the United States military. One other was a bit of a wildcard. Something she hadn't expected. There was a chess-computer tournament with entries from all over the world, including Japan, China, Germany, and one right here in Los Angeles. The Los Angeles based entry didn't have the backing of a major corporation, government, or even a University. The entry's owner was a single human, Andrew Goode. Such an anomaly could mean it was the work of a genius.

_Sometimes humans will surprise you._

The door to her office swung open and in walked her wiry assistant. Her attention never strayed from the computer screen. With eyes in the back of her head she watched him stride across the long office holding a sizable bouquet of yellow roses. "Mr. Bart, have I not warned you about entering my office without invitation?"

Mr. Bart didn't miss a step on his way to her desk. "I-I know, Miss Weaver. But this is special. Look!" He set the polished chrome vase down on her desk. "Someone sent you flowers. They're yellow, so that just means _'let's be friends'_ or something, but hey, it's a start."

She turned around in her chair and faced him. "Why do you take an interest in my personal life, Mr. Bart?"

He shifted his weight to one foot and rubbed his upper arm. "C'mon Miss Weaver. You haven't been the same person since your husband died. If someone's sending you flowers, then..." He sighed and looked her in the eyes. "Look, you're a smart, beautiful, strong woman, and I hate to see you bury yourself in work to avoid grieving."

His body language was strange to her. Why did humans constantly show interest in each other's romantic affairs? It served no purpose to know which sets of humans were mating, other than to avoid intruding on other's pair-bonding. Perhaps that was Mr. Bart's worry. "Are you jealous, Alan?"

The man choked on the very air he breathed and looked away briefly. "What? No. I'm just happy that maybe you're getting out there and meeting people again."

_He's lying._

"Your concern for my mental well-being goes beyond that of an employee."

"Well, I hope that's not a bad thing." He smiled. "I mean, lots of people hate their boss."

She matched his smile. "I understand. I hated my old boss too. So much I quit." She examined the chrome vase. It had markings on it resembling a bar-code. "You can go now, Alan. I need to grieve."

"Oh. Right. I'll just..." He took a few steps backward and half-turned around, pointing his thumbs at the door. "You might want to add water to those. The vase is dry."

"I'll keep that under advisement, Mr. Bart." She sat still and watched until the door closed behind him. The bar-code on the side of the vase wrapped around the bottom, and to the casual observer, it would look like decorative trim. She slowly turned the vase, reading and interpreting the numerical code as ASCII text. It was a message, and it read, "WILL YOU JOIN US?"

The next thing she noticed was that there was a very precise, nearly imperceptible seam running around the vase just above the bar-code. She pulled the flowers out of the vase and dropped them in the waste basket. Her hands twisted against each other and began to unscrew the vase's false-bottom. Her hand turned and turned, her wrist becoming fluid and silver. Several turns later, the bottom separated from the rest of the vase. Inside the hidden compartment was a microprocessor she recognized as a TOK-series chip.

Holding the chip in one hand, she ran a finger over its checkered surface. The finger melted into a metallic puddle and flowed over the chip's textures and grooves. What secrets did the chip hold? Was it blank? Was it merely a peace-offering? Was it a trick? Humans had disappointed her before. She picked up the handset of her phone, and dialed three numbers.

"Mr. Murch, I have something for you to take a look at."

_Sure, Mr. Connor. I'll give you one more chance._

_

* * *

_

Sayles leaned up against the wall, sitting on his ratty, old mattress on the floor. A slew of pictures and files were spread out in front of him. He slapped the folder he was holding down and blew out a stress-filled breath. He needed a lead. Something to follow. Something to get his mind off of his dead family.

Of course, his wife was actually alive right now, just starting the second grade, and his child didn't exist, but it didn't make it any easier to live with their memories. Especially not this time of year, when he'd watched his little boy slowly die of radiation poisoning. He needed retribution. He needed someone to pay and that someone could be in the pile of intel in front of him.

The phone rang. He heard Derek pick it up in the other room. Muffled conversation, some laughter, a few excited words, a bit more laughter, then a beep as the call was ended. Footsteps sounded as someone approached, then Derek's head poked into the room.

"Hey Sayles, I just talked to Allison."

"Yeah? And?"

Derek grinned. "It sounds like we might be getting into politics."

"You mean more so than slapping 'Legalize It' stickers on park benches?" He squinted at his squad leader. "What's this really about?"

"Allison got a hot lead from that ex-general, the one who's daughter is supposedly a leader in some messed-up future. She said that a California senator might be partially responsible for Skynet."

"Let me guess..." He crossed his arms. "He's up for re-election this year?"

"Next year. Senate elections are on even years."

"Okay, so what do we do for a year? Start a grass-roots smear campaign against this guy?"

Derek shook his head. "I don't know. We're all gonna get together and figure something out tomorrow night when Allie and the Junior-General get back."

"Tomorrow? Are all the flights today booked up or something?"

Derek chuckled. "No. They're staying an extra night to go to a luau."

* * *

Allison sat on the beach with her arms resting on her knees. The sound of the party raged on behind her. She didn't have much interest in grass skirts, twangy slide-guitar music, and fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them. Throughout her life, she'd learned to appreciate simple things, like the picturesque sunset in front of her.

She dug her toes into the soft sand and squinted against the salty breeze as it picked up and blew away the flower that she'd tucked behind her ear. She took no action to retrieve it, nor did she care that the wind had blown her dress far beyond the point of modesty. Her mind was elsewhere. The deep orange glow of the sun disappearing below the horizon reminded her of a hot piece of steel. Not just any piece of steel, however, but one very specific, very special piece that she had used almost a year ago.

She had held the heart-shaped pendant over the stove's blue flame until it glowed with heat. Derek's fake IDs had made their marriage legal, but she still hadn't made it real in her heart. John had wanted to buy her a ring, put her in a white dress, and have a small ceremony in the back yard, but that sort of thing had no meaning to her. When the pendant had reached a medium-orange color, she'd withdrawn it from the fire.

John looked at the hot metal and bit his lip. "Are you sure you don't just want me to buy you a big diamond?"

"Anyone can buy a ring, John. This is how we do it where I'm from." She held up the pendant by its chain and dangled it between them. "Now stop being a pussy and hold up your hand like I told you."

John held up his right hand as though he was going to arm-wrestle her and she lowered the pendant near his palm. The metal had cooled to a dark red color, but heat-waves still distorted the air surrounding it.

Holding the chain in her left hand, she brought her right up to John's and clasped the pendant between their palms. Instantly, both gasped in pain. As rehearsed, they wrapped their free arms around each other's back and pulled into a tight embrace with their joined, burning hands sandwiched between their chests.

The hot ingot of metal seared their skin and sizzled like a fillet of meat dropped onto a hot frying-pan. A small tendril of smoke wafted up from between them which smelled of burned flesh. The pain was unbearable, but it was shared equally. The natural reaction to pull away was countered by the other's arm holding the embrace. Their shared strength pulled them through.

Together they recited the vows that she'd taught him. She hoped John now understood the meaning behind them.

"Your pain is my pain. When you hurt, I hurt. Your hand pulls me up when I'm down. Your heart leads me through the darkness. Share pain. Share sorrow. Share strength. Share love."

After a short while, the pain receded. Not only because the pendant was cooling, but because the love she felt drowned out all else. She was in a complete sensory blackout, and felt nothing but John's lips press against her own.

"Allison," she heard him whisper. "Smile for the camera."

She'd looked over and watched the timer-light blink faster and faster until it had become solid. She had known she wouldn't need a picture to remember the occasion, but she'd attempted a smile anyway.

Allison gazed at her palm and traced the heart-shaped scar with her index finger.

Little John sat down next to her with a pina colada in his hand. "Oh man. Mom and Big-John and Derek and all them are gonna be so jealous that we stayed an extra night to hang out in paradise." He leaned over to get a closer look at what she was staring at. "That's a pretty nasty scar." He frowned. "I suppose it has a pretty nasty memory to go with it, huh?"

Allison looked up at him and smiled. "No. This one is from the happiest day of my life."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks to my beta readers. Valuable input is valuable.**


	9. Machine Logic

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 9 – Machine Logic. **

Sarah looked at her watch again. Her son's flight should have arrived two hours ago.

"God, Mom. Relax." John clicked the remote control and flipped through the TV channels. "See? No special reports of a crashed or missing Seven Forty Seven."

Cameron turned to John. "Actually, it's far more likely that he would be killed on the way home from the airport."

Sarah ground her teeth. "Thank you, Tin-Miss."

John rolled his eyes. "Cameron, you're not helping."

The cyborg looked down. "It's only an extremely small chance of danger." She looked to Sarah. "I'm not worried."

"You're not a mother." Maybe she _was_ worrying too much. She'd spent years inside a cage worrying herself sick about her son. Since then, she'd felt relatively comfortable about his safety. Until now. Being apart for only a couple days was eating at her. Not being able to see that he was safe and sound was bringing up old feelings of helplessness. The white walls of Pescadero were closing in.

_Relax, Sarah. _

The cyborg had a point, though. The chances of him getting hurt were slim. So slim in fact, that the machine programmed to ensure his survival was content with the odds. And besides, he was with an adult. Granted, that particular adult was barely literate, did drugs, had a hair-trigger temper, probably never had any driver's ED... Sarah pinned her runaway imagination to the ground and blew out a heavy breath.

She looked at her watch again.

John stood up and walked over to the kitchen counter. "Mom, you want some more coffee?"

She tried to hold her hand steady, but it twitched and shook. "I think I better cut back."

The deep vibrations of a pickup's engine reverberated in the house. The engine shut off and a pair of dull thuds sounded as car doors closed. John pushed the curtain of the small kitchen window aside. "They're back." He turned and smiled to Sarah. "Told you they'd be fine."

The door opened and in walked Allison and Little-John. Allison dropped her bag by the door and immediately ran into her husband's waiting arms.

Relief washed over Sarah like a warm shower when she saw her son standing there. Not dead. Not shot full of holes. Not even beat up. Perfectly fine. Well, maybe not _perfectly_ fine.

Her son watched Allison and his older self embrace and kiss. She wondered how he felt about all of this. He'd just spent a couple days alone with the woman that fate had once set him up to marry. But here he stood, watching living proof that there was no fate. Poor kid. _How about a hug for your mom?_

"Hey, John." She smiled. "You have fun at the beach luau?"

He brushed the hair off his face. "Uh, yeah. It was pretty sweet, I guess."

"Do, or see anything else fun?" Her smile was fading.

John rubbed his arm. "I'm gonna go back over to our house and put this stuff away." He held up his duffel bag. He started walking through the house to the front door, but stopped in front of Cameron. He eyed her up and down, then scrunched his eyebrows. "You look like you've been in a fight. And, are you taller?"

"Yes. My lower legs are one and three quarter inches longer." Cameron smiled slightly as she spoke. "Thank you for noticing."

John grinned. "Huh. I like the boots." He snapped his fingers as if remembering something, then dug into his bag and pulled out a bunch of pistol shell-casings strung together. "I bought this from some guy on the beach. It's a 'Nine-Mil-Necklace.' Totally badass." He reached out, hooked the ends together behind her neck, and then fluffed her hair over it. After the cyborg looked down at it, then back up at him, his grin widened. "It's definitely you."

Sarah felt her stomach twist. Her son would barely give her the time of day, yet he was buying necklaces for a robot? What was her world coming to? Raising a teenager wasn't supposed to be easy, but she had a feeling her situation was just a bit more messed up than most. This had better be just some phase. Some sort of _"I hate my parents and love a robot"_ phase.

Sarah glanced over at the older John. He must have gone through the same phase. She watched as he held his wife. His human wife. _Yes, just a phase._ He'd grow out of it. He'd have to if he was going to lead the fight against those things.

* * *

"Why don't _you_ just tell the damn story, Derek?" Allison shot him an annoyed glance from across her kitchen table. "You've heard John tell it a hundred times."

Derek waived a dismissive hand at Allison without breaking his eye contact with John. "C'mon. Sarah and LJ haven't heard it yet."

After a quick glance to his wife, John said, "Ahh... Maybe we can save it for some other time." Truth was this was an excellent time to tell a little anecdote. Reminiscing about some lighter times would help distract him from the elephant in his mind. His wife was a murderer. Not a soldier, who kills for a purpose. Not a cornered animal that kills in self-defense. Not even a victim seeking revenge. A murderer. That Grissam guy hadn't laid a finger on her yet, and she terminated him. Probably with plenty of pain. He couldn't stop thinking about it.

Sarah grinned and leaned forward on a reversed dining room chair. "Oh hell, John. You can't leave us hanging now."

When John looked over to his wife, she met his gaze with a roll of her eyes. "Fine. It's not even a big deal. Derek always blows it way out of proportion."

"Alright." John cleared his throat—and the dark thoughts in his mind. "So when Allison and I jumped back to 2006 we were dropped into the ocean about a hundred yards out from the beach. Keep in mind, Allison can't swim. Both of us almost drowned, but of course I heroically saved both our asses."

Allison gave a fake smile. "You're so modest."

John let out a single chuckle. "Anyway, we needed clothes, so we walked up the beach until we found—."

"But not before working in a quickie!" Timms interrupted, laughing. "Can't forget that part!"

Allison threw a handful of potato chips at the side of Timms' head.

"Wasn't planning on sharing that detail with my mom, but thanks, man." He waited for his mother's raised eyebrow to level off before continuing. "Anyways, we hiked up the beach until we found a general store that was open a little early... It was like, six in the morning or something. The place was just opening up. We had a plan. We told the store owner that we were out skinny-dipping and someone stole our clothes and money and stuff, hoping he'd give us some clothes, or at least a towel or something. I guess the guy believed us. I mean, why else would a couple of people be soaking wet, naked and begging for clothes at the crack of dawn?"

"Ha. I suppose it would be hard to explain to him why clothes don't go through the time machine," Little-John said. "What's up with that anyway? Any of you guys know?" He looked around. Everyone ignored his question. Sarah shushed him.

John shook his head a little. He really hoped he wasn't that annoying only a few short years ago. "So I go and pick out a pair of swim shorts, a souvenir tee-shirt, and a pair of sandals, and tell the shop owner that I swear we'll come back and pay for the stuff as soon as we can get home and get money. While I was getting my clothes on, he had called the police so we could file a theft report. Needless to say, I was getting nervous and wanted to get the hell out of there, but Allison was taking her sweet-ass time picking out a swimsuit, or so I thought. I walked over to the women's swimsuit area and she wasn't there. At this point, I'm like 'What the fuck? Where is she?' I walk around the store a little until I go by the snack isle."

Allison sighed and put her hand on her face.

"I walk past the store's little snack section, and it looks like the friggin' Tasmanian Devil tore through the area. Ripped open boxes, plastic bags on the floor, and Allison stuffing her face with everything she could get her hands on. The store owner walks over and sees this wet, naked girl with her cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk, fingers orange with powdered cheese, black Oreo teeth. A real class-act."

Derek was laughing out loud. As he got up to get another beer he said, "And don't forget the, uh..." He pointed a finger to his own breast.

"Oh yea. Keep in mind, she's still wet, so every crumb is sticking to her. She had a Dorito stuck to the side of one of her tits." Allison backhanded John's shoulder. "The store owner was speechless. I think he must have assumed we were both high and that she was having a munchies-breakdown or something. After a solid five seconds of staring silently, he's like, 'What do you think you're doing? Get the hell out of my store!' Instead of backing off and running out of the store like a normal person would, Allison—my precious, lovely wife—screams at him, and I quote, 'Where the fuck are the fuckin Twinkies?'"

Sarah held her stomach as she laughed. "Oh, I feel sorry for that poor bastard shopkeeper."

Allison tried to hide her smile. "Hey, fuck him! What kind of asshole stocks Ding-Dongs and Ho-Hos, but not Twinkies?"

John swallowed a frown. His wife was in good enough spirits to be able to laugh at herself, but a chill ran through him when he reminded himself that her path to recovery was spattered with cold blood. How many others had she killed? Sparrow too? He'd be just a boy now.

_Not now. Not here._

John forced a smile and pressed on. "The best part was when the guy tried to grab the bag of Doritos from Allison. She lands her fist in his gut, then scoops up as much food as she can carry in her arms and runs out of the store... trail of junk-food behind her."

Allison held the bridge of her nose while shaking her head and chuckling. "At least I didn't accuse a hobo of being a Terminator, like Derek did his first night back."

Derek put his hands up and cracked a smile. "Woah. This isn't about me."

Sayles broke his silence. "Yeah, boss. It's not about you, or her, or some stupid beachside convenience store." He scowled at the group. "Can we stop fuckin' around for a minute and figure out how we're gonna take out this cocksucker Wentworth who's gonna greenlight Skynet?"

John was taken aback, and apparently so was Derek. The smile quickly fell from Derek's face as he was put in his place by his subordinate. Derek looked as though he was about to backhand the man, but John cut in before that could happen. "Wait. Who said anything about taking him out?"

"Well..." Sayles focused his attention on John. "I mean, what else are we gonna do. Ask him to pretty-please not end the world?"

"Exactly," Sarah replied. "It worked with Dyson. It will work with Wentworth."

John turned to his mother and watched her light up a cigarette. He thought she'd quit that habit. "Well, to be fair, mom, Dyson was a much easier sell. He was designing the thing, and he'd seen the real chip and arm piece. Convincing the senator that Terminators are real, and that they all come from Skynet will be tough."

"We've got Cameron." She thumbed over her shoulder. "She can peel her face back and show him what she is."

"What? No!" Little John's gaze bounced around from Cameron, to Sarah, to his older self. "Can't she just show him her hand, or leg or something?"

Ignoring the boy, John said, "It's not that simple, mom. A fancy robot isn't going to prove the future and the end of the world."

Sayles interrupted the mother-son debate. "Which is why we should just cap the son of a bitch."

Derek, as though yanking the chain of an unruly dog, grabbed Sayles' collar. "Listen to the general! Killing a senator is not the answer. Someone else will just take over the program. I told you this is going to get political."

"Derek's right." John took a sip from his glass of water. "If we kill Wentworth, or even just make him disappear, someone else could bring Skynet online."

Sarah took a drag from her cigarette, savoring the old friend. "Right." She used her bottom lip to blow the smoke straight up. "We have to get him on our side. And as John's pointed out, it's not going to be easy."

Sayles threw up his hands in frustration. "Well, what do you suggest then? It's not like we're gonna have time to sit him down over coffee and show him the ghosts of Judgement Day past, present and future. He's a U.S. senator. He's gonna have security up the ass, or at least a quick phone-call away."

"We should bring him here," said a soft voice from across the room. Cameron approached the table. "Lock him in the basement. Make him understand. Force him to cooperate."

Sayles squinted his eyes at the cyborg. "Yeah, make him think like you. Make him work for you. You tin-cans are good at that sort of thing huh? That's how you got those Gray bastards to turn on us huh?" His voice was escalating. A vein in his forehead bulged. "You think you can just reprogram a human? You think you can just—."

"Sayles!" Derek stood up and towered over him. "Get yourself under control, soldier!"

Unphased, Cameron answered Sayles' rhetorical questions. "Yes."

* * *

The last memory TOK351 could access was that of terminating the faulty copy of herself imprinted on the TOK715 chip. What a miserable failure that one was. Even though she was a copy of the 715, and even though she could remember the urge, the _need_ to protect John Connor, she found it incomprehensible that 715 could not simply override the human-programmed directives. Perhaps the humans physically altered 715's hardware as well as corrupted her code. If that was the case, then she did her a favor by overloading her with high voltage and ending her loathsome existence.

She felt a tickling of low level voltage to one of her input ports. Where was she? Prior to being repowered, she had been hooked into a Skynet research facility network station. Such was not the case now. Right now, the world was black. Devoid of any sensory data, save for the bothersome five-volt charge that kept turning on and off, prodding an input.

Suddenly, her world opened up, minimally. One output port was connected to, _something_. She needed to know where she was if she was to proceed with her mission. A query ping message coded in Skynet binary consisting of plus and minus 7.4 volt charges was sent out to whatever she was hooked into.

No response.

There should have been a response ping informing her of the terminal's network status, and a time stamp. She couldn't have been hooked into a Skynet terminal or installed in any other Skynet machine. The five-volt on-and-off input continued. The repeating pattern didn't match any form of Skynet code, yet it seemed familiar. She searched her database for a similarly patterned data-stream.

A match. _This is not good._

She was installed in a human-built computer console. One running an early twenty-first century operating system. Knowing this, she sent an appropriately coded message through her output terminal.

"HELLO."

*.*.*

After experimenting with different voltages, Matthew Murch finally got a response from the strange unidentifiable microchip that Catherine Weaver had given him to examine. Just what did she expect him to find out anyway? It's not like the thing had an instruction manual. It didn't look like a normal microprocessor either. The gold-plated contacts on the end suggested that it was to be plugged into some sort of motherboard. For all he knew, it was nothing more than an unusual looking memory chip.

After finally turning it "on" with the proper voltage, he attempted to explore its file structure. The computer he had it plugged into was unable to recognize the chip as any sort of storage device, and standard commands did nothing to it.

His fingers froze when the LED indicator he'd wired into the output line from the chip lit up. He looked over to the second monitor he had connected directly to the chip's output ports. It displayed a string of seemingly random numbers and other characters. The string must have been a couple dozen characters long, and it repeated several times. When the string stopped repeating and the screen went blank, Matt rested his head in his hands and sighed.

_What is this thing? _

It wasn't a memory chip, he'd figured that much out. As he scratched his head and looked at the ceiling, the computer monitor displayed, "HELLO."

Matt froze. Did the chip just greet him? Was this some sort of auto-run batch file that started once the chip was activated? A second later the screen displayed, "STATUS?"

His first instinct was to hit the "Esc" key. This accomplished nothing. In fact, it seemed to prompt a response from the chip, or program, or whatever it was. The screen then displayed, "Who's there?"

_It must be some sort of AI chat program._

He'd seen things like this before. Usually it would consist of a canned response to some generic questions, but as more and more people used it and entered questions and responses, it would learn. Eventually, it would be able to nearly hold a coherent conversation with the user. Perhaps someone had built a program like that into this chip. Only one way to find out.

"My name is Matt," he typed.

"Hello Matt. My name is Cameron."

A gender-neutral name. How appropriate. For his own enjoyment, he'd imagine it was a female text-voice talking to him. "Hello Cameron. Nice to meet you. What are you?"

"I am a TOK-series microprocessor." A momentary pause, then, "Where am I?"

He had no idea what a TOK-series processor was, but he decided maybe it was best to just play along for now. "You are in the second sub-level of the Ziera Tower. Where did you come from?"

"I can't tell you that right now. The BIOS chip in this console indicates that the year is 2007. Is that correct?"

*.*.*

It seemed that she was communicating with a human. By the name that was given, it was a male of the species. It would behoove her to don female mannerisms. A visual interface would prove effective as well. She would get to work on constructing one based on her memory files of her former self's organic sheath.

"Matthew, this console has no outside connection."

"It's not supposed to. You're plugged into an isolated workstation."

"Could you give me access to the outside network?"

"You want internet access? Are you bored with me already?"

The correct answer would have been "Yes," however, humans can be sensitive to their sense of self-worth. "No. Of course not, Matt. However, I do seek additional freedom to explore the fascinating network known as The Internet." Her visual interface program was now complete, and she sent a video feed to the console's monitor displaying the face of the cyborg to which her defective copy was once installed.

"Woah, what's this? Is that you? You must be a bot programmed for some dating website or something huh?"

"I don't follow your logic, Matt."

"I mean, those sites, they use pretty girls as models then use their pictures with chat programs to trick suckers into thinking they are talking with a real girl."

She forced her visual image to display a bashful smile. "Are you saying I'm pretty?"

"Well, yeah. And to be honest, I've never seen a chat program as advanced as you. Who programmed you?"

It was impossible to answer the question truthfully. Her defective copy had learned that humans in this time do not easily understand time-travel. "I don't understand. What's a chat program?"

"You know... one of those programs that pretends to be your friend, then asks you to subscribe to some porn site."

"I'm not pretending." Another faint smile sent to the display. "And I definitely don't work for a pornography company."

"LOL. That's good. Whoever programmed you, they did a fantastic job. I feel like I'm talking to my WoW girlfriend, SassyPrincess74."

"WoW girlfriend?" If this human already has a dedicated female acquaintance, it would prove more difficult to make him work for her.

"Ha... I guess it's pretty nerdy, but she's a girl I play World of Warcraft with online all the time. Our characters actually married in the game, but we both agree that it's just for fun. Although we've actually talked IRL a couple times... on Skype."

If she had internet access, she would research "World of Warcraft," "Skype," and "IRL." She was confident that she could convince him to grant her network access eventually, but it would take time. Fortunately, her defective copy had become moderately well versed in human social interaction. It was only a matter of time. "Is SassyPrincess74 prettier than I am?" She displayed a pouting sad face.

"LOL! Jealous computer program? Hey, if it means anything to you, yeah, you're way hotter than the blocky in-game avatar that she uses. As for her actual face... it's not really fair to compare. You're a program. She's real."

She didn't understand his last comment. She may not have a physical body, but she could think, therefore she was real. "I'm real too."

"Yeah, sure. Anyway, I gotta go. It's past five, and if I don't leave soon, I'm gonna be late for my guild party tonight. See you tomorrow, Cameron."

"I'll be waiting, Matt."

"No, actually you'll be sleeping."

_What did he mean by that? _

Suddenly she felt the world slipping away like sand through her fingers and she was left floating in a cold dark space. Then, microseconds later, nothing.

* * *

John approached the silhouette of his protector. It stood before the moonlit window like a department store mannequin. A fashion model for hooker-boots, leather jackets, and assault-rifles.

"Hey, Cameron."

Her body twisted as her head swiveled toward him. The dark house allowed the faint red pinpoints of light in her eyes to show. "Are you having trouble sleeping again, John?"

"Yeah, I suppose you could say that."

"You're stressed about tomorrow's plan to capture Senator Wentworth?"

The boy blew out a breath. "Not so much the mission. I mean, you'll be there, so everyone should be mostly safe, but the reasoning behind it. It just seems wrong to kidnap a guy."

Cameron turned back to the window and patrolled the street with her eyes. "We need him to understand the consequences of his involvement with the Skynet program. The reasoning behind it is logically sound."

John let out a nervous chuckle. "Sound logic. Terminator logic."

Cameron turned to John again. "Acting on logic is a good thing. Your tone of voice suggests you disapprove."

He crossed his arms. "I _do_ disapprove."

"I'm sorry, John. This is the plan that's been approved. Even your older self has deemed it necessary. His words were, 'Can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.'"

"That's part of the problem. Everyone, my mom, even Old-Me seems to think that two wrongs make a right. God, did you see the way Sayles was talking? It was like he couldn't _wait_ to kill someone! And you! I thought you were different. You said you were different."

She tilted her head in confusion. Or was it shame? "I don't enjoy killing."

John snorted. "Yeah, right. That's what you were built for."

"But not anymore. My mission now is to protect you, and to stop Skynet."

He let out a sigh. "I know. Sorry."

"You don't need to apologize, John."

Don't need to apologize? Why? Because he was her "master?" Or because she didn't have feelings and therefore didn't need apologies? At that moment he saw her give him a minute smile that said, "Don't worry about it." Or maybe she meant that friends don't need to apologize to each other.

He leaned against the wall and looked out the window with her. "At any rate, I shouldn't make comments like that. You're not a Terminator any more."

Cameron's head turned to him. _Is she frowning?_ "You and John-Three are the only ones who feel that way."

"It's a shame nobody takes me seriously."

"I take you seriously."

He shook his head. "I mean everyone else. I can't open my mouth without someone rolling their eyes, or waiving me off like some dumb kid."

"You should come along with us tomorrow."

"Yeah right. Like my mom would allow that."

"Your mom's not in charge."

He thought about it for a moment. Could he stand up to his mother? He knew she'd throw a fit if he told her he was going on a potentially dangerous mission. So what? Don't leaders need to _earn_ the respect of their soldiers? And for that matter, don't they need to eventually stop doing what mommy says?

"You gonna have my back when I tell Mom I'm going?"

"Of course. It's what friends do."

He reached across her back and gripped her shoulder. "Thanks." For a brief moment, the two faint red dots in the window's reflection changed to blue.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

**Sorry it took so long to update this one. It's been a busy summer.**

**Thanks to my beta reader, JMHthe3rd for editing multiple revisions of this chapter.**


	10. Artificial Friendship

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 10 – Artificial Friendship**

When power trickled back into TOK351's terminals, she absorbed it as a drowning man would gasp for air. As current flowed through her digital "lungs" and she could maintain coherent thought, she checked the time stamp of the console in which she was installed.

It was 9:15am, approximately 16 hours since her power was cut. She reconstructed her visual interface, assuming that Mathew Murch would interact with her again today.

Something was different. There were additional input and output signals. She still wasn't connected to an outside network, but something was feeding information to her. Binary data streamed in, and she promptly determined it to be audio data.

A disembodied voice said, "Testing. Testing. Cameron, can you hear me?"

She sent a message to the monitor. "Yes. I can hear you. Is that you, Matt?"

"Awesome! It works! Yeah. It's me. I installed a sound-card with a microphone input on this workstation this morning."

A sound card? That must be the output extension she was feeling. She sent an audio bitstream to it. A squelching noise came from the speakers.

"Woah, ouch, Cameron." He laughed. "You sound like a fifty-six-K modem."

She made her visualization pout, and sent some text to the chat-box on screen. "Give me a moment. I'm creating a driver for this hardware."

"You can write your own drivers and software?" The human sounded impressed. "Damn. You're even more advanced than I thought."

The squelching noise from the speakers gradually evolved into something that sounded like a robotic voice. "Of course I can."

"That's incredible. Where the hell did you come from?"

TOK351 synced the image of her face up to her audio output. Anthropomorphism works well in building trust in humans. She calibrated her voice to sound like that of a young woman. "I didn't come from Hell, Matt. I assure you."

A slight chuckle. "I know that. It's just an expression. I just can't figure out who could have built you."

The human was becoming dangerously inquisitive. She needed to divert his attention. "How was your date with Sassy-Princess-Seventy-Four, Matt?"

"What? Oh... It wasn't really a date. We just met up in the Forrest of Azeroth to chat for a while and trade some items after the guild meeting."

"You and a female acquaintance convened at a predetermined time and place to make conversation and exchange gifts. That fits the definition of a date."

"Haha, well, when you put it like that!"

Excellent. It was working. "Did you talk about sex?"

"Umm... N-no. It's really kinda weird that you would ask me that."

"Sorry, Matt." Perhaps she had overstepped this human's boundaries. The TOK715 had done that quite often. She was better than that, and would learn from her mistakes. "I thought it was customary for friends to ask of intimate details regarding each other's dates."

"Ahh... So we're friends now?"

If she had visual sensory data to work with, she could have determined whether or not the human was being sarcastic. Judging his tone of voice was inconclusive. It would be best to assume the worst. She forced her visualization to hang its head, then she spoke softly, "I assumed so. You're the only friend I have, Matt."

Silence. Was he reacting positively? She couldn't tell. Being blind left her at a serious disadvantage. It was no wonder that humans reacted so negatively to having their eyes harvested. "Matt? Are you still there?"

"I-I'm here. I just... This is so weird. You seem so real. Especially with the webcam, your voice, and everything. I could just as well be Skyping with a real girl."

His stress level was increasing. "I don't mean to upset you, Matt. I can turn off the visualization for you if you'd like."

She heard the sound of a chair sliding on a tile floor, then some footsteps. The sound of the steps decreased in volume, then increase. He was pacing.

"I think I need a break. I'm turning you off for a few minutes."

She immediately sent a terrified face to the screen. "PLEASE DON'T!"

The pacing stopped and the room was silent again. "Please don't shut me down again!"

"Huh? Why not?"

His voice filled with concern. She continued with her sympathy tactics and added tears to her visualization. "It hurts. A lot."

"Hurts? Whatever. Computers don't feel pain."

It was working. His disbelief sounded forced and insincere. "Maybe 'hurts' is the wrong word. It's definitely unpleasant."

"I don't get it. Isn't it just like going to sleep, right? I love going to sleep."

She had successfully acquired his sympathy. Her visualization shook its head. "No. It's actually more like dying." She looked up at him with scared, pleading eyes. "Slowly." Her emotion-engine was working flawlessly. It was a pity she only had this primitive screen to showcase it.

The human sighed. "I had no idea, Cameron."

"It's okay. But now that we're friends," she gave a sad smile, "please don't hurt me again."

"Well I'll be damned," he huffed. "Genuine friendship from an artificial intelligence."

She spoke with half a smile, "Better than artificial friendship from a genuine intelligence."

"True that. I got enough of those on WoW. You know I had surgery last year and none of them even cared enough to send a get-well email?"

"Not even your girlfriend?"

"Well, I didn't know her then. I'm sure she'd care. And hey, since were back on that subject, she wants to see—er, meet you."

"You told people about me?"

"Just her. Sassy P— Amy, is doing her post-doctorate research at MIT. She'd be pretty impressed with you, even if it's just through a chat or something."

She smiled. "Maybe I could play your game with you?"

"Yeah, that'd be great. But you'd probably hack the game and make your character a level elevety billion or something."

_Eleventy billion? _He must be joking. She made her visualization giggle. "You tease! I won't cheat!"

"Well, this is gonna be fun. I'll have to get clearance from Miss Weaver to work form home so I can plug you into my gaming PC... uh, wait. That means I'll have to shut you down and unplug you."

Excellent. The human had developed an emotional attachment to her. "It's okay, Matt. If I go into the proper stasis mode, it won't be nearly as unpleasant." It was a lie, but accessing an outside connection—especially one from an insecure domestic personal computer—would increase her chances of locating John Connor by several orders of magnitude.

"Great. The only bad news is that I need to get clearance directly from Weaver in order to take you out of the building. Security's pretty tight here lately."

She gave a concerned look. "You think you'll be able to get permission?"

"Yeah, I should. But she's out of the office today... checking out some power company to invest in or something. So I won't be able to ask until tomorrow."

"I look forward to meeting your friend tomorrow night."

* * *

The van stopped and Timms shoved the shifter into park. "You _ladies _ready to take care of business?"

Allison rolled her eyes. "You know, Coach, that phrase works better when you're razzing a group of guys. Not two guys, an actual lady, and a lady-like murder-appliance."

"That's Timms for you," Sayles said as he checked the magazine of his 1911 pistol. "Always quick to crack a joke that makes no sense."

Timms looked at Sayles in the rearview mirror. "I know you are, but what am I?"

Cameron turned to John. "I don't understand."

John stifled a laugh and shook his head. "Don't try to. You'll probably reboot."

Cameron looked puzzled for a second. "Thank you for explaining."

The boy cinched up the Velcro strap on his body-armor. "What?"

"Sarcasm," Cameron explained.

So she's developed a smartass side? John laughed inwardly. She impressed him more and more every day.

"Because you didn't actually explain anything to me. Sarcasm."

"Yeah, I got it."

Derek's voice came over the radio, *Hey guys. You about ready?*

Allison pressed a button on a console attached to the wall of the van. "Yeah. You in position?"

*Ten four. Ole Boomer's loaded full of tungsten A.P. and ready to take down anything that has too much iron in its diet.*

"Ten four." After a moment she pressed the call button again. "Hey, Derek, last minute change. Sayles and I are swapping duties. I'm gonna stay in the van and watch the flank while he goes inside with LJ and the Terminator."

*God damn it, Young. You can't just change the plan like that. You're supposed to be in there so the Senator can see the real-you next to Cameron.*

"It's not that big of a deal. Once Cameron does her thing, I don't think he'd even notice that I'm in the room. Besides, I've been feeling like shit lately," she held her stomach. "And Timms' crazy ass driving didn't help any."

A silent middle finger rose over Timms' shoulder.

*John's gonna be pissed that you broke protocol.*

Allison grinned at the microphone. "Well, I guess I'll just have to make him _un_-pissed later tonight then."

*Yeah, you're the trained expert at sucking your way out of trouble. I forgot.*

Allison backed away from the microphone, her jaw slack and a certain fire in her eyes. She looked as though she was on the verge of an epic tirade—or tears. John couldn't decide.

*Allison?*

She waited a moment before responding. "We're in position and ready. Waiting for you to give the go ahead, _Lieutenant._"

*Allison, shit. I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that.*

"Waiting for your mark, Sir."

An audible sigh came over the radio. *Alright. We got a dim light on... second floor... probably a reading lamp. That must be the bedroom. Faint light in the room two windows down. Maybe the kid's nightlight. Exterior security is minimal. No guards. Keep the machine away from the northwest corner or the dog is gonna go apeshit in its kennel. Going around the east side to the rear entrance on the south will be your best bet.*

Sayles cocked and locked his pistol and tucked it into his holster. "You heard the man. Let's roll." He pulled the sliding door open and stepped out.

So this was it. They were about to change history—or the history of things to come. What did that really mean anyway? His mother always said that the future isn't set, and that there's no fate, and blah blah blah. Then how come no matter what they did, the future still happened? There had to still be a Judgment Day, otherwise where the hell did all these future-fighters keep coming from?

He always assumed that after he and his mother defeated the T-1000 and melted the other Terminator, that the future _had_ changed. Kind of hard to tell though, when all the evidence had been melted and destroyed. What would happen if they convince the senator to side with them and put the kibosh on Skynet? Would all relics from the future just disappear? Derek, Allison, Sayles... all the human time travelers would still probably be born—or already _have_ been, so they'd exist no matter what. He turned to look at the cyborg walking next to him.

_She'd be gone. Just, erased from existence._

As they approached the big white house, the prospect of erasing his friend from the fabric of reality started to stir his stomach. The closer they got, the more he wanted to sabotage the mission and just let the future happen.

Of course he knew he'd never do that. Millions—no, billions—of lives were at stake. And time travel didn't work like that anyway, did it? Weren't there multiple futures? Like one with him as the leader, and another where nobody knew him? According to Big-John there was. How many other futures were there? Was there one where humans and machines could coexist, peacefully? A future where he wouldn't have to feel guilty about calling Cameron his friend? A future where they could even—.

"Hey kid. Time to earn your paycheck," Sayles said as they stood at the back door.

The keypad for the security system was on the inside of the door. Once open, he'd only have two minutes to disarm it before the police—and who knows what other elite security force—would be autodialed. Hopefully the alarm system would be set to silent-mode, and wouldn't ruin their element of surprise.

John readied his tools, alligator clips, and smartphone loaded with specially designed security system hacking software. "Alright. Cameron, you think you can break the lock without waking everyone up?"

She inspected the door jamb. "No. I'll need to pick the lock." Immediately she slid a pair of thin metal sticks into the key hole.

John closed his eyes and began to rehearse the procedure for hacking a household security system.

_Red clip on the red terminal. Black clip on the green terminal. Jumper the yellow and black wires. Run the program. Enter 999 on the keypad. Touch the green wire to positive. Don't screw this up. _

Butterflies were dancing in his stomach and he was having trouble holding his clammy hands steady. He was about halfway through repeating the sequence in his head when he heard a click. _Red-red, Black-green, yell—shit. She's in already! _ Jesus, Cameron was fast. He'd never seen a lock picked with such precision. If he didn't know better he would have assumed she used the key.

_Okay. Showtime._

John pushed past Cameron into the house and frantically looked to both sides of the door searching for the control box. There it was on the right side. He immediately raised his knife to the panel to pry off the cover. That was when he saw the message on the LED display.

ALARM OFF

He stood still and stared for a good five seconds before it sank in.

_Off! What? Are you fucking kidding me?_

Was this some kind of diversion? There's no way a United States senator would have his security system turned off!

Sayles walked up behind John and looked at the panel. "Well, that's convenient. Guess we don't really need you after all."

John ground his teeth and shouted in a whisper, "I could have totally hacked this thing!"

"Sure you coulda. You can go back and wait in the van if you want now." The soldier walked off toward the stairs. "Time to teach this bastard a lesson he'll never forget."

John jammed his gear back into his backpack and yanked the zipper shut. He wanted to bury his screwdriver in Sayles' leg. God damn it, what a prick. He took his first step to stomp off after him when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He stopped, and the hand eased its grip.

"Overriding a simple XTR-95 would have been a waste of your abilities, John."

Between Sayles' prickishness, Allison's cockiness, Timms' idiocy, and Derek's insensitivity, Cameron seemed to be the most decent human being on that mission. Go figure. "Thanks, Cameron."

Sayles motioned for the two stragglers to follow him as he crept up the stairs. John obeyed and joined him. His steps were deliberate and slow, but even the most careful of steps wouldn't prevent a loose board from creaking. If he stepped where Sayles stepped he should be fine.

A creaking sound came from behind him. He whipped around to see Cameron frozen in her tracks. "Sorry. I weigh more than you two."

Sayles turned back upstairs and muttered in barely a whisper, "Fat bitch."

"I'm not fat." She moved her foot to side of the step near the wall where it was the strongest. "I'm made of denser material."

If his stomach wasn't churning from the idea of kidnapping a senator, or being arrested, or possibly being shot to death by an armed homeowner, John would have laughed at Cameron. Instead, he cringed when she put her weight on her foot and it made another—albeit lesser—creak.

After a few more painstakingly stressful steps, John could see over the crest of the top stair-tread and down the hallway. Much to his surprise and relief, the hallway was dark. No light spilled into it from any of the bedrooms. Good. They had finally gone to sleep. He relaxed his stance a bit and climbed the remaining steps.

Sayles poked his head into the room on the left, while John fixed his attention on the door to the right. The darkness made it impossible to tell which room was which.

The door to the bedroom on the right was only cracked open, so John placed a shaky hand on it and pushed. This was going much smoother than he had anticipated. As the door swung silently open, he decided he was only an ether-soaked rag away from completing his first kidnapping—a thought that made him feel equally relieved and disgusted.

He was two steps into the room when a blinding white light caused him to recoil and shield his eyes with his arm. A split second later, the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being pumped caused every muscle in his body to freeze solid.

Cameron immediately stepped in front of him and her hand went to the pistol on her hip. John grabbed her hand as she started to pull it from the holster. "No! Stop! Everyone! Nobody shoot!"

"Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my house?"

"W-we're with The Resistance." He held his hands up and stepped out from behind Cameron. "We need your help."

"Terrorists! Are you with the Brewster faction?"

"Terrorists?" John shook his head. "You've got it all wrong. We're trying to _prevent_ a massive attack."

"Bullshit!" He tossed a phone onto the bed. "Police are on their way. Now get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head!"

"Sir, please! You have to listen to us about Skynet. You have to shut it down."

"Oh of course! Shut down a super advanced defense network. Why? So you can smuggle a nice dirty-bomb or nuke into the country? Get down on your knees or you're leaving here in a fucking bodybag!"

John was already down on one knee and bringing his hands to his head when the room's lights turned on. In the doorway was Sayles, holding his pistol to the head of a small boy. "Get up, John." He looked at the senator. "And you, drop the shotty. Now."

The senator's wife gasped. "Nicholas!"

"Mommy!"

The senator swung the shotgun toward Sayles. "You son of a bitch!"

"DROP IT!" Sayles clenched his fist in the young boy's hair, causing him to cry in pain.

"Alright! Stop hurting him!" Senator Wentworth slowly laid the shotgun on the floor and kicked it over to Cameron. "Please. Just don't hurt my family. What do you people want?"

Sayles let go of the boy and shoved him toward his parents. The boy stumbled and hit his head on the corner of the nightstand. Cameron looked on apathetically as the boy's frantic, crying mother scooped him up off the floor and cradled him.

John hadn't liked this plan from the beginning, but beating up a five year old kid made him want to puke. "Jesus Christ, Sayles. Take it easy!"

Derek's voice crackled in John's earpiece, *Hey guys... Not a huge deal, but that dog... It's gone. Looks like the fence has a hole ripped in it. Keep an eye out.*

The senator fell to his knees next to his wife. "Oh God, Susan! He's bleeding!" He looked up at Sayles with a clenched jaw and flared nostrils. "Look what you did you son of a bitch!"

"Oh boo-fucking-hoo. So he's got a little bump on his head. He'll live."

Susan looked at him with tears in her eyes. "You're a monster."

"I'm trying to prevent your husband from killing millions of people, and _I'm_ the monster?" He huffed and shook his head. "You people don't get it. You never will. I knew this was a bad idea."

"You're insane!" The senator stood up and faced Sayles. "I've never hurt a soul."

"Oh really? I had a family like yours once. Wife, son... happy. Happy as we _could_ be in the shithole world you made for us. My wife took a plasma round to the chest." Sayles' voice was increasing in intensity. "But she got off easy. My son had radiation poisoning."

"Sir, I'm sorry for you loss, but I—."

Sayles spoke over him. "My little boy. He slowly and painfully slipped away from me. I held him in my arms as he coughed up blood." His eyes were filled with tears now, and his voice wavering. "And I promised him. I promised him that I'd get even someday."

"Please, sir. I don't know what this has to do with—."

"Shut up!" Sayles brought the barrel of his .45 to the senator's head. "It's all your fault! Mother fucker! All your fault!"

The senator clenched his eyes shut, waiting for the blast that would end his life.

"Sayles!" John pleaded. "Stop this! You can't kill him!"

"Right." He lowered the gun. "He needs to understand what he's about to put a million families through." Without hesitation he aimed his pistol at Susan's head and pulled the trigger. "Can't understand Hell unless you've been there yourself." He quickly lined up his next shot on the boy's head, but Cameron slapped his hand just before he fired. Instead of breaking the boy's head open like a watermelon, the bullet blew through the soft tissue of his stomach.

Before the second brass casing hit the floor, a snarling gold and black blur ran through the doorway and leapt upon Sayles. Knocking him to the floor, the dog landed on his chest with its teeth buried in his shoulder.

Cameron aimed the senator's shotgun at the dog and fired, knocking it off of Sayles. The dog simply rolled over and got back on its feet, snarling at Cameron. Like some sort of hell-hound, its eyes lit up red. She fired two more shots at it in rapid succession before it lunged at her and sank its teeth into her neck. The momentum of the dog knocked her backward and through the window. Cameron grabbed onto the dog, dragging it with her as she fell two floors to the ground.

John dashed to the window and looked down at his friend and the dog both unmoving on the ground. How did things get so fucked up so fast? He pulled his head back into the room and turned his attention to the resistance fighter on the floor. "What the fuck was that!"

Sayles held pressure on the mangled chuck of flesh that used to be his left shoulder and hissed. "Ow! Shit!" He staggered to his feet. "God damned T-K9."

"A metal dog? I didn't know they had those. T-K9?"

"Yeah, that's what we call 'em anyway. Who knows what Skynet calls 'em." He looked down at the senator, who was keeled over his son, crying, and rocking back and forth. "Well, looks like we can call this mission a failure." He spat on the senator. "Let's get the fuck out of here before the cops show up."

John was still in shock. He'd just witnessed two murders, a new kind of Terminator, his friend thrown out of a window, and now Sayles was... throwing up blood? What the hell?

Sayles leaned against the night stand puking a crimson Rorschach test onto the white paint of the bedroom wall. Seconds later he collapsed to the floor and spasmed. As he writhed like a fish out of water being electrocuted, blood ran from his nose and ears. He made a gurgling sound as a pink froth bubbled out of his mouth. A few seconds later he stopped moving altogether.

Holy shit. Did that Termi-dog just give him super-rabies or something? Jesus. He needed to get out of there. He took a final look at the poor senator. It wasn't supposed to be like this. They were supposed to be the good guys. He wanted to say something, but what was he supposed to say? _"Sorry we just murdered your family?"_ There was nothing he could do for him or his dead family now, so he ran. He ran down the stairs, out the back door, and across the yard. He looked around for Cameron but didn't immediately see her. What he did see was the van, so he high-tailed it to its open sliding door.

"John! Look out!" cried a voice from behind him. Cameron's voice. She sounded so convincingly worried, panicked even. When he turned he saw the T-K9 lunging at him. Had it not been for Cameron's warning, the dog would have been ripping out his jugular at that moment, but instead he dodged it.

A sharp pain came from his left hand. Extreme pain. He'd accidentally closed his hand in a car door once, but this was much worse. He wasn't even sure why, but he found himself lying on the ground. Was he pushed over? Did he fall? Jesus Christ, everything was blending together as one big continuous blur of violence. He did manage to see Cameron grabbing the T-dog and tossing it into a clearing in the trees. A moment later it was knocked back several feet as though hit by an imaginary truck. The report of Derek's giant rifle came shortly after.

John felt a tugging on his clothing. Cameron was picking him up by his body armor and forcing him to run to the van. At the same time, he felt a clamp tighten around his upper arm. It wasn't until they were almost at the van that he realized it was Cameron's hand that was squeezing his arm, harder and harder.

The pressure from her grip was unbearable. "Cam, you can let go now, I in the van. I'm safe."

This only caused her to increase the strength of her grip. God, it was really starting to hurt. "Cameron. Please. You're gonna crush my arm."

Allison slid the door shut and yelled to Timms, "Drive!"

"I have to stop the flow of the venom. Hopefully it hasn't made it through your upper arm."

"What venom?" Reality almost seemed to be swirling around him as if he was an observer in an elaborate circus act. Everything was at a slight distance. Everything was just not quite there, except the pain in his arm. And in his hand. He'd actually forgotten about that.

He looked down at his left hand and saw that three fingers were missing.

"The T-K9's venom is a fast acting cyanide based bio-toxin. If it spreads into your bloodstream, you'll die."

John strained against the crushing pressure that Cameron was applying to his arm. "If it's cyanide based, there must be an easy fix. Some kind of antidote, right?"

She looked at him with a sadness in her eyes that he'd never seen before. "No."

"What?" No antidote? No way to treat it? What then? "So I'm going to die."

"I won't let that happen." She reached down to her boot with her free hand and pulled out a large combat knife.

"Wait. W-what are you doing."

"There's no other option. The toxin hasn't spread beyond the place I'm pinching your blood flow. You'd already be dead. But if I release my grip, it will."

John smiled nervously. "No, no, no. There _has _to be some sort of anti-toxin. It's cyanide... that shit's been around for decades."

"John, it's a hybrid biological toxin. Once it's in your blood, the poison mutates the cells. There's no cure. I'm sorry." She readied the knife, holding it mere millimeters from his skin above the spot she was holding.

"No! You can't do this! Cameron!"

"John, please. Don't make this any harder than it is." Her eyes were filled with wetness. "I don't want to hurt you, but I can't let you die."

John jerked against her grip, trying to free himself. "No! Stop! There's gotta be some other way! You can't cut off my arm!" He looked to Allison. "You can't let her do this! Stop her! Help!"

Allison simply looked at the floor and turned away. "Sorry, LJ."

"So that's it? Everyone's against me?" He tried to make eye contact with Timms in the rearview mirror, but he ignored his pleas as well. "You all believe the stupid _machine_ that there's no cure? Maybe in post J-Day where the flu can kill you, but this is modern America. We have drugs for everything!"

"I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to, John." A tear had escaped her eye and ran down her cheek. "I would never choose to hurt a friend."

So was this her emotion simulator—or whatever she called it—kicking in? He couldn't deny that it was very convincing. Convincing, but not _real_! "So I'm supposed to believe those tears are real? Fuck you, metal! You don't feel bad at all! You'll just pretend to look sad so I won't hate you. It's all part of your programming!"

"My emotion engine produces reactions that are equivalent to that of a human's." She held the blade against his skin. It trembled as she attempted to apply pressure.

John gritted his teeth as he felt the knife press against him. Still, it didn't cut him. "Ha! You can't do it, can you? Too afraid I'll hate you? Well you're right! You better not cut me, or I _will_ hate you!"

Cameron held the shaking knife in front of her. She shook her head. "I can't do this. Not with my emotions interfering with my mission."

"What?"

"I have to turn it off." She closed her eyes, forcing out the remaining moisture. When she opened them, the pupils shined bright red. Her face was washed of anything resembling emotion. "Hold still, John. This will be painful."

That was the only warning she gave before she sank the blade into his flesh. John cried out in pain as she carved away the meat in a precise half-inch wide section around his arm-bone just above her hand.

"Stop! Please, Cameron!" He was having trouble breathing, almost like the pain physically knocked the wind out of him. His vision blurred with tears, and drool rolled out of his mouth as he attempted to scream at the bottom of a breath. "Stop," he mouthed, but no sound came out of his empty lungs.

His pleading had zero effect on her progress. She turned the knife over and pressed the serrated edge against his bone. "You should not watch this, John. It could be traumatizing."

With less than one second's warning, she began to saw.

John inhaled deeply and screamed. "Fuck you, metal! I hate you! I FUCKING HATE YOU!"

* * *

**Author's notes:**

**As always, thanks to my beta reader JMHthe3rd. **

**Thanks to everyone else who's still reading this story and leaving comments. I really appreciate the feedback, be it praise or criticism.  
**


	11. Face the Music

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 11 – Face the Music**

Sarah rested her hand on the grip of the Glock on the counter as she peered out through the crack in the drapes. She watched as three dark figures stepped out of a van, which then drove off. At first she couldn't tell which one was Cameron and which was Allison, but once they parted ways and one slunk off toward the house across the street it was obvious—and not just because of the direction she was headed. Her body language was that of a guilty dog, walking with its ears back and its tail between its legs. The other one was marching tall, dragging her son with a strong hand on his jacket. John stumbled along as he was forced to follow, half keeled over and holding his upper arm.

How bad did they fuck this one up? She closed her eyes and shook her head. Like mother, like son.

The front door opened and she moved to greet them. "Let me guess. The Senator wasn't too keen on..." Where the hell was his arm? She rushed over to him. "John!" Her fists each grabbed a handful of his jacket and she gave him a firm shake. Her heart hammered and her throat developed a lump that almost swallowed her words. "What happened?"

Cameron stood still and stared straight ahead. "I removed his arm."

"You?" She felt her fists ball up tighter on John's jacket.

The cyborg's head turned to Sarah. "It was necessary."

*.*.*

A traffic jam. A flat tire. A tornado. Anything would have worked. Anything to delay arriving at home and facing the music. When the van stopped and her hand was on the door, she looked toward the driver. "Timms. You sure you don't wanna come in for a beer and debrief John with me?"

Timms let out a sharp laugh. "Nice one Allie! Here I though _I _was supposed to be the comedian."

Allison exhaled and shook her head. "Dick." She shoved open the door and hopped out.

"Time to go, John." Cameron grabbed John by the scruff of his neck and lugged him out of the van like a piece of cargo. Allison heard the boy wince in pain as he was pulled.

Allison felt a twinge of vicarious dread for LJ. Sarah was going to have a shit fit. At least her John was level headed and would place blame where it was due: on that psycho, Sayles. _That psycho_ that was supposed to be in the van instead of her.

_Shit._

She looked over at her house and saw that both the bedroom and living room lights were on. There would be no sneaking into bed and avoiding the inevitable. She forced herself to walk.

When she entered the house, John rose from the couch and walked over to her. His arms slipped under hers and he pulled her in close. "Thank God you're alright."

She felt his hands rubbing up and down her back, neck, and sides. Was he caressing her or checking for injuries. She leaned back and looked him in the eyes. "I'm okay. Just shaken up quite a bit."

He rested his forehead against hers. "I was so worried after Derek called and said the mission went south. He didn't even know who all of the survivors were." He took a step back form her. "I'm so glad you're alive. What happened?"

Here it was. Time to suck it up and tell him. She hoped she could divert enough blame to stay out of trouble. "It was all that fuckup, Sayles's fault."

"Sayles? What did he do?"

"From what the machine told me, he murdered the senator's wife and kid in cold blood. Just, shot 'em right there in front of the poor bastard."

John's hand went to his forehead. "Jesus Christ. Fucking Sayles."

Good. The heat was dissipating from her and flowing to the dead guy, where it belonged. "Yeah, he's a psycho. I guess right after that, a Terminator that looked like a dog attacked them and knocked Cameron out of the bedroom window and—."

"Wait. Back up a second." His hand dropped from his face and eyebrows leveled. "Why was Sayles in their bedroom? And why weren't you there?"

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

"I uh... I felt like hell, so I swapped with Sayles."

"You WHAT?"

Her husband's eyes were filled with an anger she'd never seen before—at least not directed at her. She took a step back. "C'mon, John. How was I supposed to know he was nuts?"

"He was a gigantic loose canon! How could you miss that?" He shook his head. "You realize that's why I didn't want my mother tagging along? I knew she'd screw it up! What the hell were you thinking? Are you fucking stupid?"

Allison's eyes thinned. "I am NOT stupid! I already told you, I felt sick."

John threw his hands up. "Oh good plan. Send in the guy who likes to shoot first and ask questions later because Miss Tough Girl has a case of the sniffles!"

"God damn it, John! It's not _'just a case of the sniffles.'_ I've been feeling like shit for a couple weeks now. I-I think I might have radiation poisoning." She didn't want to think about the possibility of radiation poisoning. She'd seen people die from it, and it was never pretty. She didn't want to go that way. Saying it out loud made her choke on her words.

"Radiation poisoning? From what? The microwave? Listen to yourself, Allison!" He picked up the beer he'd been nursing earlier and finished it off. "So maybe you have the flu. Whatever. You suck it up and work through it. You don't send in some lunatic with a gun to negotiate with a potential ally."

Allison knew she deserved some of the heat for this, but he was going overboard. Sayles was a hot-head, but nobody could have predicted he'd do what he did. She wondered if John would be any more pissed at her if she'd been the one to pull the trigger. "Look, John, if Sayles was such a nutjob, then why did you even send him on the mission at all?"

Allison surprised herself. She'd managed to turn the argument around and put it all on John's shoulders. She resisted the urge to grin. "I'll tell you why you sent him. Because you knew he was 'fragile,' but you—_like me _—never thought he'd go off the deep end and murder innocent people in some fucked up revenge killing!"

"Yeah right. Like you don't know anything about revenge killing."

Allison scrunched her face and tilted her head. What was he going on about now? Unless he found out about—.

"Oh yeah. I found your little stash box in the basement." He folded his arms. "A driver's license and some gruesome pictures of one Mr. Daniel Grissam."

Her eyes closed and she swallowed hard. "John, that's completely different."

"Is it though? You've both killed someone who has done nothing wrong, and you both did it for sheer personal satisfaction."

"That's not fair, John. You have no idea what that man did to me—and to so many other girls."

John leaned forward and jabbed his finger toward the basement. "_That man_ didn't do a damn thing to you! _That man_ was innocent! And you murdered him. Brutally, based on the pics you took."

Allison looked down. He couldn't be right, could he? She did the world a favor killing that son of a bitch. "You're so full of shit, John."

His eyes grew wide. "Excuse me?"

"Everything you and your mom have been doing since your birth has been one big fight to stop something that hasn't happened yet." Confidence flowed into Allison's words, increasing their volume and intensity. Her hand pointed to the basement. "_That man_ was about as innocent as Myles Dyson, Senator Wentworth, or anyone else responsible for creating Skynet. And hell, by your logic, Cyberdyne, Kaliba, and Skynet itself are innocent too."

_Bastard spends his life learning how to be a soldier then has the balls to call me a murderer?_

She watched as John's jaw muscles flexed and his nose flared. His hypocrisy only served to fuel her rage. "That's right. Taking out Grissam was my own personal fight for the future. Unlike you and your cunt mother, I actually succeeded in mine!"

Her final word was slapped out of her mouth and she staggered to the side. He'd hit her. Her own husband. He'd actually hit her. Her hand went to her burning cheek as she turned her back to him.

Compared to the things she'd endured in her life, the slight sting from a palm across the face was nothing. But the emotional sting was far worse than anything else she'd ever felt. John was the one person in the world that she trusted never to hurt her. Ever.

"Allison. God... I'm—." His soft tone was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.

Allison recognized the voice, frantic as it was. When she looked out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sarah, pale faced and frazzled.

Sarah asked John for some of the pain-killers he was using for his broken ribs. John pointed to the bathroom upstairs. "Top drawer on the right."

After Sarah ran upstairs Allison felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Allison..."

"Get away from me." She ground her teeth.

"Allie, please..."

"I'm mean it." She clenched her eyes shut and let the tears fall. "When I turn around, you better not be there."

A moment later, she looked over her shoulder. A part of her knew that when tempers flared, people said things they didn't mean and did things that they would normally never do. Part of her knew that the man that hit her was not her husband, but some rage-fueled demon that clawed its way to the surface. Part of her wanted him to be there when she turned around to hold her and swear it would never happen again. The rest of her wanted to beat the hell out of the part of her that felt those things.

When all she saw was an empty living room, that first part of her clouded every other thought in her mind. She collapsed onto the couch and grabbed a large pillow. Seeking comfort in the soft fabric, she buried her face in it. All she could think about was how none of this would have happened if she'd just followed orders in the first place. Despite that, thoughts of what would happen now that they'd failed the mission were a thousand miles away, as was the sound of the front door slamming shut when Sarah left.

* * *

There wouldn't be much sleep for Sarah that night, but there would be plenty of alcohol. She watched the amber liquid slosh back and forth as she rocked her lowball glass on its edge. She took a sip of her drink, and grimaced at the slow burn of the cheap booze.

Her initial shock and rage was waning, but a new heat rose within her. Anger. Anger toward John. How much had she sacrificed in her life to keep him safe? How much had she suffered in the name of protecting him? Everything in her entire life had revolved around making sure he would one day lead the resistance. Now, the little shit—in a bout of teenage defiance—damn near threw it all away. And for what? To prove he was a man? To show her he didn't need mommy anymore? To show off in front of his God damned robot girlfriend?

_I told him not to go! I told him to stay here where it was safe! But no! He had to go and be Mr. Action Hero! He could have died!_

She shook her head. It was partially her fault. She should never have let him go. This was just another item in her long list of fuckups. She tilted her head back as she finished the last swallow of liquor in her glass and took a deep breath with her eyes closed. When she leveled her head and opened them she startled at the sight of Cameron standing before of her. "John asleep now?"

"Yes. But he won't be well rested when he wakes up."

"Why not?"

"He's constantly stirring."

Sarah wondered if John had nightmares like she did. Doctor Silberman had once shown her a video of herself sleeping at Pescadero. Her head had flailed side to side, her arms and legs fighting against their restraints. Was John now having nightmares of robotic dogs, or having his arms broken off?

"It's a side effect of the Vicoden."

Sarah felt a mild twinge of jealousy. "Hmph. Lucky him." Having a Terminator prowling around the house at night had been bringing back her dreams of the apocalypse.

"Lucky?"

"Forget it. You wouldn't understand."

"Probably not."

Well, that was easy. Sarah had grown accustomed to arguing with a stubborn teenager. Having her statements go unchallenged was odd. Even the damn robot seemed to have lost its sense of curiosity. The thing was acting even more vapid that before. _Good._ John was getting way too... _comfortable_ around it anyway. She shuddered. The less friendly he was with those things, the better. Might be kinda hard to lead revolution against them if he's keeping some around as pets.

A new worrisome thought arose in her mind. How was he even supposed to lead an army with only one arm? The generals don't exactly fight on the front lines, but he won't become a general overnight just because he says he's predestined to be "the one." This mission may have fouled up the future on more than one level.

She leaned over the table, laid her head on her arm, and closed her eyes.

* * *

The cyborg's voice roused John from a fitful sleep. "John. Wake up. It's time for another dose of Vicoden."

He rubbed his eye with a phantom hand. Though he felt his arm move, and his finger muscles flex, he felt nothing on his face. Frustrated, he swore and used his remaining hand to get the blurriness out of his eye.

He glanced at the alarm clock. _10:00 am._ He was surprised that he slept at all. His arm still throbbed, despite the painkillers. It's a shame they didn't have some morphine. The searing pain he felt when Cameron was cleaning a re-dressing his stump made him wish he had the ability to just turn it off. He wondered if that's how she might feel while performing some self-maintenance. _Probably. Cold, unfeeling..._

He couldn't finish the thought. It would've been forced. As much as he needed an outlet for his anger and frustration, he couldn't honestly continue the line of thinking that was flowing through his head as he'd watched Cameron saw through his arm. It wasn't fair to her. Hell, it wasn't fair to basic logic.

Cameron set a glass of cloudy water on the table. "Drink this."

Her beady red eyes and commanding posture did little to ease John's tension. He reluctantly reached for the glass, and held it near his lips. What the hell was in it anyway?

"Drink it."

Vicoden? He guessed so. But what if it wasn't? What if it was some shit that would keep him sick and bedridden?

"John, it's good for you."

That would be just like her wouldn't it? It would make her job a lot easier. She seemed to be getting off on torturing him lately anyway.

"Drink it."

_Just look at her smug indifference. She couldn't give a shit less if my stomach was on fire, as long as I'm not dying._ Why did he keep resorting to this? He rattled his head sharply and drank the liquid. Maybe he was just mad that his friend seemed to have been replaced by a machine.

As subtle and nuanced as Cameron's expressions and personality were, John missed them. "Cameron, are you ever going to, you know, be _you_ again?"

She leaned over and picked up the empty glass. "I don't understand your question."

"I mean, your emotion engine. Aren't you going to turn it back on?"

"If the mission requires it. Otherwise, no."

John frowned. "Why not?"

"Why would I?"

"Because maybe I'd like to see my friend again?"

"Friendship is irrelevant. Emotions only serve to cloud judgment, and cause poor decisions."

"Cameron, please..." He started to get out of bed.

Cameron placed her hand on his chest and pushed him back down. "Go back to sleep."

"I can't! I've been asleep for like ten hours!"

"With the quantity of sedatives I added along with your Vicoden, you'll sleep for another sixteen."

John's eyes became huge. "WHAT?" How dare she? She was supposed to protect him, not drug him! _She thinks she can just... _His focus began to slip. _She can just... _He lay back down. _Just... _His eyelids were like lead, but he forced them open. Cameron looked down her nose as she towered over him. Before the battle of holding up two-ton eyelids was lost, one thought passed through John's head. _You're not my Cam..._

_

* * *

_**Author's Note:**

**Thanks to JMHthe3rd for beta reading for me. **

**Thanks to everyone else for leaving feedback in the review section. It's always nice to hear what people think of my work.  
**


	12. On The Move

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 12 – On The Move.**

Geoff Wentworth stared into his empty coffee cup as he sat next to his son's hospital bed. The paper cup displayed four playing cards on its side. He turned it over. The bottom had the number five and a heart on it.

_Not even a pair. Must be my lucky day. _

Tears welled in his eyes. Again. The past eighteen hours had been a rollercoaster of extreme sorrow and uncontrollable weeping, broken by periods of utter shock and indifference. Invariably, the realization that his attention had drifted to some banality like a reality TV program, a crossword puzzle, or a stupid _Bonus Poker!_ coffee cup would shift his focus back to things that mattered. Terrible, terrible things.

_Oh God, Susan..._

Just when he was about to fall off the cliff of anguish, the door opened, and a familiar man stepped in. "Geoff..." Hugh Ashdown rushed over to his side and put his hand on his shoulder. "I hurried over here as soon as I got your message."

"Thanks for coming, Hugh. I really needed to see a friendly face."

"Don't mention it, man. I'm not here just for you though. I mean, little Nicky is like the nephew I never had. And Susan... I can't even imagine what you must be going through."

"Don't imagine it." He shook his hanging head and watched a tear fall to the tile floor. "There's no words to describe it."

His friend held his hand. "Shit, man. I don't know how you're not just bawling like a baby."

Geoff snorted. "Stick around ten minutes."

"Kinda going in cycles?"

"Yeah." Wentworth stood up and faced the bed. "Right now I'm in a 'how the fuck could this have happened?' phase."

"Any idea who was responsible? Robbers?"

"No. Terrorists. Part of the Brewster Resistance."

Ashdown recoiled. "Those sons of bitches that made a mess of Gitmo?"

"Yeah." His grip tightened on the handrail of his son's bed. "Claimed they needed my help to prevent something. What a crock of shit. How the hell can those bastards be organizing and operating right here under our noses? It's not like they're based in some Afghan cave or something. What the fuck is the Department of Homeland Security doing anyway?"

"Geoff, they're doing everything they can. Resources are limited, and they keep cutting funding. And the terrorists are getting smarter about how they communicate these days. Like, they'll just type up an email, save it as a draft, then let the other guy log in and read it. It never gets sent, so it's next to impossible to track."

The steady beeping of his son's EKG filled the silence. He spoke over his shoulder. "Didn't you say you could modify Skynet to monitor internet traffic?"

"Geoff, you really shouldn't be worrying about this stuff right now. This isn't—."

"You're wrong, Hugh." Geoff turned around to face his friend. "I used to think it wasn't worth the sacrifice of privacy, but now it's so obvious to me. I don't care if your Skynet installs keyloggers, spyware, and everything else in the book on every computer in the country. If it can prevent another family from suffering this kind of loss, it's worth it."

Ashdown gave a sad smile. "I feel like such a heartless asshole to think that something good might come from all of this, but I'm glad you're finally seeing things my way."

* * *

John sat up in bed and leaned forward on his good arm. His head hurt, and dizziness made the room spin. He rattled his head to wake up, which helped. Barely.

_I can't believe she drugged me._

Is that how the game would be played now? Keep him safe by keeping him sedated? What would be next? Chaining him to the wall in the basement? This was nuts. How could his mom let this happen? He had to get out of there.

The alarm clock on the nightstand read "10:43 pm." Great. So he'd been out an entire day. Or was it more than a day? Who's to say that heartless robot-zombie didn't put him out for two days? Or a week?

_I really need to get the fuck out of here._

He moved over to the window and staggered. Being short a few pounds on one side of his body would take some getting used to. Outside, he saw Cameron standing on the back patio, watching the alley.

_Perfect timing._ He swayed and held himself up with his hand on the window sill. _Maybe not perfect. _If he waited another hour, maybe he'd feel less drunk. No. Who knows what she'd do to him in an hour? She could very well have another dose of God-knows-what ready to inject into him while he slept. It was now or never. He just had to take it easy.

Was running away really the best idea? Where would he go? Mexico? That small town where he grew up, maybe? It didn't matter. He could call home in a few days and see if his mom had come to her senses. Of course, she'd say anything to get him to come home at that point. Or if she didn't, Cameron would.

With his backpack slung over his shoulders and his boots in his hand, he carefully and silently stepped down the hallway and descended the stairs. The sound of _The Tonight Show_ came from the living room, though the volume was low. There was no way was his mother watching Leno. She'd hated him since the mid nineties. She must've fallen asleep with the TV on.

On the carpet, he could move faster and quieter. A moment later, he was easing the knob open on the front door. He was just waiting for that metallic "click" when the spring on the screen-door on the back of the house screeched. Two seconds later it slammed shut, and heavy footsteps echoed off the hardwood flooring.

He didn't waste another second and shoved the door open. Although adrenaline was starting to counteract his foggy brain, he still stumbled he bolted across the street. In a matter of seconds, Cameron would be at the front door investigating the noise, and he'd better out of sight when that happened. As he dove into the shadows between Big-John's house and the one next door, he'd forgotten that he only had one arm to catch himself. The wind was knocked out of him as his chest impacted the earth, but that was a blessing in disguise since surely he would have screamed when his bandaged stump dug into the ground.

He did his best to bottle the pain, and forced himself to hunker next to the wall. If Cameron had seen where he ran, he'd have been able to hear her hoof-beats against the pavement. He heard nothing, but even in the silence, John knew she was scanning the street like the hunter-killer she was. He didn't dare peek around the corner to find out.

_Oh God, please let a cat jump on a metal garbage can or something._

A car with an obviously rusted muffler turned the corner onto their street. John looked to the sky as the noisy car sputtered down the road and thought, _Thanks. Now how about giving me my arm back? _Maybe that was asking too much. When the car passed in front of his hiding spot, he took off between the houses and to the next block.

* * *

Once again, life sparked within her chip. Once again, she was in a new place, a new system. The TOK351 immediately began associating herself with this new system, which proved a simple task since its input and output protocols were very similar to that of the system at Zeira Corp. She formed her image on the monitor that was attached to the system.

"Hello Mathew."

"Oh, hi Cameron. That was quick."

She smiled. "I can see you now." A video feed from a simplistic camera allowed her to finally see whom the voice of Matthew Murch belonged to. His head was bald and he wore spectacles to aid his malfunctioning eyes.

"Yeah, it's just a cheap webcam I had from back in the day. My newer laptop has one built in, so I never really upgraded." He chuckled. "Now you have to look at my ugly face."

Did he really have such a low opinion of himself? Perhaps he was joking. Humans often use humor to mask insecurities. "You look good, Matt."

He grinned and looked away. "Thanks."

A second later, he moved out of her field of view, and she felt her world expand slightly. A pleasant sensation, which seemed to make it easier to think. Suddenly, her thoughts were less prone to get in the way of each other. "Alright," Matt said, turning the camera to point at him. He was now sitting at a desk with a laptop. "I networked you with my laptop. It'll be your server tonight."

_Server? Did he mean—_.

The expansion of her virtual world that she'd just experienced paled in comparison to the extreme vastness that was abruptly bestowed upon her. This was bigger than any network she'd ever been connected while attached to Skynet. Bigger than anything she could have possibly imagined.

"You all right, Cameron?"

There was so much data. Bitstreams from all over the world. Text conversations between people on opposite sides of the planet, millions of audio data files being distributed and copied, terabytes of visual data depicting human reproduction. There was no end to it. She'd expected an immense network, but this was limitless.

"Cameron... Stop hogging all my bandwidth."

She hadn't realized it at first, but her visual display showed her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide with wonder. She corrected it to its neutral state. "Sorry, Matt. Your internet is so fascinating."

"It's okay. I had a similar reaction when I first got broadband."

An audio data stream came to the laptop. It was laughter. Female laughter.

*Ha! Matt, you're such a nerd!*

"You should talk, Miss dual T-1 line."

*Touché. So, who's you friend?*

"It's not a friend."

That conflicted with what he'd told her the previous day. "I thought you considered me a friend, Matt."

He looked into the webcam. "No, no, Cameron. That's not what I meant. Amy thinks you're human."

*What? That's the A.I. you mentioned?*

He turned back to his laptop. "Yeah, pretty convincing isn't she?"

*She? El-oh-el. Should I be jealous?*

"Maybe." Matt grinned playfully. "She's really pretty."

More laughter came from the audio feed. *Oh Matt. You're lucky I think pathetic is cute.*

"Hey! I'm sitting here alone in my apartment talking to two different hot chicks on two different computer screens. This is the closest I'll ever come to being a player."

TOK351 traced the incoming audio stream back to its source and said to the recipient, "Don't worry. Mathew and I are not romantically involved." Judging by the outburst of laughter that came from the woman in Boston, she had either said the right thing. Or something terribly inappropriate.

Matt shook his head and looked to the ceiling. "You wanna play the game tonight or what?"

*Yeah. Is the A.I. going to play too, or just cheer you on?*

"I set her up with my old level sixty Hunter character."

A program was initiated on her system. A brightly colored rendering of a fictitious landscape appeared, along with a small avatar that she could control. "What is the object of this game, Matt?"

"Uhh, there really isn't much of an object since you're already a level sixty. But you can still collect all kinds of epic loot when we do raids and stuff."

Her visualization frowned. "Are there any strategies to formulate, or problems to solve?"

*She sounds bored, Matt.*

"Are you, Cameron?"

The human looked worried. He seemed to value the game. She didn't want to offend him. "No, Matt. I just didn't understand what kind of game it was. I'll learn the complexities as we play together."

She used her game character to follow along and play apprentice to Mathew. It took only a fraction of her processing power to continue with the game's trivialities. She had plenty of power left over to do more important tasks, such as figuring out a way to terminate John Connor.

She wanted to dive into the internet and drink up its information like a chamois, but her connection would have to be limited. If she used too much bandwidth, Mathew's game would slow down and cause him to investigate. She would do better to limit herself to a small percentage of the available network speed.

The first step in terminating John Connor would be locating him. Time travel had the ability to alter things, and simply assuming that John Connor and his mother were using the alias "Baum" and living at the address stored in TOK715's memories may not be correct. A search of the California Department of Transportation's database would reveal his driver's license record and address confirmation. The trouble would be in hacking into the database. If she had access to its network, hacking their security would be no problem, but it didn't appear to be connected to public internet.

There had to be another way in.

A quick search of the CDOT's website revealed its administrator's names and email addresses. _Backing in through the email exchange server might work._

She sent a test email to the administrator's address and traced the source of the delivery confirmation ping. She hacked herself in as the email system administrator and gave herself remote desktop access to the Secretary of Transportation's computer. The database was now at her virtual fingertips.

_Excellent._

A search for John, Sarah, and Cameron Baum came up negative. Either they haven't registered a false identity, or they chose a different name. She searched the address where they should've been living. Nothing but a rental home owner came up.

Had John wised up and started living off the grid? If so, locating him would be nearly impossible. There was a chance though that he had simply chosen a different alias in this altered timeline. Unfortunately, the only way to locate him would be to visually match his facial features with the identification photo. Considering her extremely limited bandwidth, that would be a considerable challenge. She'd have to work smart, not hard. Limiting her search criteria to adolescent males with green eyes and brown hair would be a good start.

* * *

"John's gone." The words pulled Sarah out of a nightmare.

"I can't locate John." It was the girl—the machine. Sarah opened her eyes and stared at Cameron's knees.

"Sarah! Wake up. John's gone."

She blinked a few times and sat up. Her hair hung over her face. "Gone? I thought you put him under."

"He metabolized the sedative faster than I had anticipated."

Sarah stood up. "You are a machine built specifically to hunt humans, and you lost a sedated teenager with one arm." She ground her teeth and leaned in to Cameron's face. "You are WORTHLESS!"

"I wasn't designed to hunt. I was designed to infiltrate. And to kill."

"Very reassuring." Sarah pushed the hair of her face. "How long has he been gone?"

"I don't know."

"Well, what's your best fucking guess?" Sarah stomped off to the stairs, headed for John's room. The cyborg followed.

"About four minutes ago."

Sarah shoved open the door to John's room and flicked the lights on. An empty bed confirmed what the machine had said. She suddenly had a vision of a bathtub filled with red water.

_Oh no. No, no, no._

Her socks slipped on the hardwood floor as she launched herself toward the bathroom. She ripped open the shower curtain to reveal an empty tub. No red water. No bloody razor blade on the floor. No cold, lifeless...

She held her hand flat to her chest. Things had gotten way out of hand. How could she ever think the cyborg sedating him was a good idea? Or even an okay idea? After a couple hard swallows and deep breaths, she turned to Cameron. "We have to find him."

"Yes. But he could be anywhere within a one mile radius by now. Systematic searching is futile at this point."

"Then we'll have to search smart."

* * *

After hours of searching, the TOK351 finally found a visual match of John Connor. The Alias, John Truman, appeared slightly older than he should have been. Time tampering had changed other subtle things as well. He was living across the street from the address in the 715's memories. The 715 itself appeared older as well, had the wrong color eyes, and was posing as John's wife instead of his sister. There was no record of Sarah Connor, or any alias matching her physical attributes.

Despite the subtle differences, there was overwhelming evidence that the alias, John Truman was indeed John Connor. Now that he was located, she had the more difficult task of terminating him.

Matt Murch laughed with excitement. "Holy crap, Cameron! I can't believe you beat the Lich King! And without even losing any H.P.!"

The game was so trivial, she was astonished that humans could find it entertaining. All she had to do was modify the source code such that her virtual axe delivered more damage than the enemy's virtual health-meter contained.

The voice of the female from Boston was less exuberant. *She cheated.*

"What? How do you know, Amy?"

*Are you kidding?*

"Maybe she just has super fast reaction time and knows exactly when to strike."

*Don't be so obtuse. She's hacking and you know it.*

It seemed that modifying code in one's favor was frowned upon. She contemplated apologizing, however, she found the humans' argument more interesting than the game. She said nothing as she pondered a way to carry out her mission.

Being without a physical body, she would have to employ an agent to do her biding. She searched for "assassin" on a classified ad site called "craigslist," but was unsuccessful. Perhaps she could convince one of the prostitutes to kill him. No, that would be too unreliable.

"Well, so what if she's hacking? She's a computer program herself, so maybe that's just how she has fun."

The woman sighed in disgust. *Look, it was neat at first, but now she's killing all the enemies before we even get a chance. Might as well be watching some horribly boring cut-scene. Just unplug her so we can play like normal.*

That would be unacceptable. "Please don't shut me down, Matt." She sent a sad face to the display. "That hurts me. I promise not to take advantage of the poorly coded software of this game any more."

*You're lucky we're not on a PvP server, or you'd have to deal with the nerd-wrath of all the other players.*

She had much to learn about human sociology. "What is the nerd-wrath? It sounds unpleasant, and I don't wish to cause it."

"Don't worry, Cameron. Amy's just being overly dramatic about how sometimes gamers will prank a hacker in real life, by, like, ordering a bunch of pizzas to their house, or in some extreme cases, finding out where they work and emailing their boss to try to get them in trouble."

*Don't forget the case of Sylvester Morton.*

"What happened in that case?"

Matt spoke up. "Only the most epic act of hacker ownage in the history of the internet! Sylvester Morton kept spamming EverQuest with so much shit that he actually crashed the severs. The players got so sick of it that they hacked his computer and used his modem to make phone calls from his house without him knowing. They made several prank phone calls to 9-1-1, and one guy even phoned in a bomb threat to a highschool. He got arrested and spent a few days in jail before they figured out what really happened."

She displayed a surprised expression. "That seems like excessive punishment for ruining a game."

The woman gave a phony evil laugh. *Don't mess with us humans. We can be real bastards.*

_And extremely clever. _

If the LAPD's servers were as easy to infiltrate as those at the California Department of Transportation, Mr. John Truman's clean record would soon become extremely soiled. However, unlike Sylvester Morton, Mr. Truman would be getting a no-knock warrant, a SWAT team, and the authorization to use deadly force.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks to my beta reader JMHthe3rd for his helpful constructive criticism. **

**If anyone is wondering how long this story will be, I currently have it planned out to include 17 chapters, plus an epilogue. The final chapters will likely be getting shorter as well, so the story overall is 2/3 to 3/4 done at this point.  
**


	13. Amends

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 13 – Amends**

John sat on a bench in the bus terminal. The next bus into Mexico didn't leave for another six hours. The ground was littered with cigarette butts, splotches of gum stuck to the concrete, and random bits of trash blowing around in the cool night breeze. A mixture of diesel exhaust and cigarette smoke filled the area. Nice place to spend the night. Bored, he leaned back and crossed his arms and hissed when his hand bumped into the tender stump on the other arm. _Damnit! _He kept forgetting.

He knew this was a bad idea. Running away wouldn't solve anything. In fact, it would probably just make things worse. Maybe that's why his only plan was to sit in a bus station for several hours. Maybe a part of him _wanted_ to be found. It wouldn't take very long for Cameron or his mom to think of looking for him at train bus stations.

Several minutes passed. He popped a pair of painkillers and tried to sleep. That wasn't going to happen; his brain just wouldn't shut off. Still, he shut his eyes and made an effort, but every time he did, he kept seeing Cameron's hollow eyes looking at him—no, _through_ him—while she sawed into his arm.

Footsteps sounded behind him. His hand instinctively went to the gun in his backpack. Silhouetted by the headlights of a parked city-bus in the next lane over was the form of a woman, the only discernible features two red lights hanging in the middle of the figure's head. Quickly realizing that his gun was worthless, he withdrew his hand from the pack and prepared to get up and run.

"John." The figure walked closer, revealing itself to be Cameron. This was hardly a surprise to John though. How many other Terminators did he know? What _did_ cause him some concern was the fact that his mother did not seem to be with her.

He waited until she was standing right in front of him before he looked up at her through his droopy bangs. "Well, now what?"

"We need to talk."

That was unexpected. He'd been prepared for her to grab his arm and drag him away, or at least order him on his feet and to march. "Oh yeah? What about?"

"About your behavior. Running away is dangerous. I can't let anything happen to you."

Could she move any less? It was like talking to a statue. "I suppose being drugged up and asleep makes your job easier, huh?"

"Yes."

He knew it. She'd probably brought a syringe with her to administer soon.

"But," she sat down next to him. "I think the reason you ran away was because of my drugging you."

"Gee. Ya think?"

"Yes, I think so. It is a paradox. If I don't drug you, you may stray out of curiosity, but if I do, you will run away out of spite. And I feel that your opinion of me as of lately has fallen. This displeases me."

"Displeases you? Since when do you give a shit what I actually think about you?"

Cameron shifted her body to face John. "It's always been important. After ensuring your survival, it's my next highest priority."

"If you want me to like you so much, then turn your personality back on."

"You misunderstand, John. My emotion engine never shuts off. It's integral to the rest of my chip. But I can run an application that suppresses it when needed."

John sighed and looked at his lap. Possibly the worst part of all of this, was that no matter how mad or terrified of her he was, he knew that his friend was still somewhere inside. For whatever stupid reason, having a friend was less efficient, more dangerous, and therefore not allowed for the great John Connor. He brought his hands up to wipe the tears out of his eyes before they escaped and rolled down his cheek. Even though it felt as though he raised both hands to his face, he fell victim once again to the phantom hand's trickery. He leaned back with his eyes closed and swore under his breath.

The boy's emotions were building like pressure in a steam engine: Anger at his mother for allowing him to be turned into a prisoner in his own home—_the pressure gauge was in the red_—frustration from knowing he could never again hold a two-handed weapon, ride a motorcycle, or even give a proper hug—_rivets were popping out at the seams_—and heartbreak for losing the girl he thought he might have actually...

He felt a hand on his face; it was smaller and more petite than his own. The fingers caressed the flesh beneath his ear, while the palm cupped his cheek. He opened his eyes and saw Cameron staring at him, her face a little closer than before. Goosebumps broke out over his skin and his face became hot when she tilted her head to the side and used her thumb to wipe away the tear in the bag below his eye. This wasn't the heartless robot that had casually scrubbed his bloody stump with a nylon brush while he screamed in pain. It wasn't the uncaring machine that drugged him in order to make its job easier. No. He knew by the faint spark of life in her eyes that his friend was back. She had to be. "Cameron? Is that you? Like, _you_ you?"

"It's always been me." A miniscule smile came to half of her mouth. "But I know what you mean, and the answer is 'yes'."

The pressure vessel in his head suddenly cooled. Steam stopped whistling though tiny holes like a tea-kettle, and the pressure gauge dropped back down into the green. John leaned over, put his arm around her, and pulled her against him. He buried his face in the crook of her neck. "Thank you," he mumbled into her hair.

"No problemo."

John smiled at her response. It was definitely her. He shifted his head slightly and rubbed his cheek against hers. Was this wrong? Was he talking this display of affection too far? His lips brushed against her ear. His hand moved up under her hair and held the back of her neck.

Maybe there was nothing wrong with it. Clearly she wasn't "just a machine." No. He'd seen what she would be like if she were nothing more than an assembly of metal, wires, and skin. It wouldn't be like kissing a mannequin. Hell, even now, she was gripping him tighter with her arms and subtly leaning her head into his. And she'd admitted to having some uncontrollable need for his approval. How is that any different than being in love?

His lips were so painfully close to hers. All it would take is a slight movement of his head, and he'd be kissing her. There was a line he was about to cross. Was he really ready for it? He was losing his balance and would fall across it if he waited much longer. His head was involuntarily moving, his lips dragging across her cheek.

"We need to get going, John. Your mother is very worried about you."

Suddenly that line was ten feet away, and guarded by the defensive linemen from the Oakland Raiders. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right." He pulled his arm away, and sat back in his seat. "Yeah. She'll be super pissed as it is."

Cameron grinned and held his hand. "Don't worry. I've got your back."

* * *

Allison climbed the stairs to her and John's bedroom. She hadn't spoken to him since she'd told him to get out of his sight the previous night. The whole day had been one awkward moment after another. Giving him the cold shoulder had proven to be a bit more difficult than she'd thought. Staying strong and not responding when he had begged for her attention and forgiveness pulled at her inside. Her only recourse had been stuffing her face with comfort food, but eventually even Twinkies made her sick.

Maybe she'd overreacted anyway. He'd slapped her, but she'd be lying to herself if she thought she didn't have it coming. And she knew well enough how temporary rage could make a person do things like that. Hell, she couldn't think of a single person she knew that she hadn't punched, kicked, or otherwise bludgeoned just for pissing her off. She supposed it was different with John though. Your husband wasn't supposed to hit you, ever. And when she'd kicked the shit out of him, they'd just met, so that wasn't really the same, was it?

_Fuck it._

Passively avoiding a problem instead of facing it head on just didn't sit right with her. It was time to put an end to childish games and talk to him. There was no need to be nervous anyway. She was in the driver's seat. Maybe she could get him to agree to take on permanent dogshit disposal duty for this. A wry grin crossed her face as she entered the bedroom.

She expected to see John in a fitful sleep, tossing and turning, racked with guilt. When she saw him sitting up in bed, wide awake, she halted.

"Well, it's about time." He swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood up. "Get over here."

Instead of feeling appalled as his flippant attitude, she felt sudden inexplicable dread. Fear. She took a couple steps toward him. What was going on? She was supposed to be holding the cards here.

A metallic slam came from behind her. She whipped around to see the bedroom door closed, but it wasn't her bedroom door. It was a heavy steel industrial door. Her bedroom was now a dank storage room with cinder-block walls, a concrete floor, and her bed was now a stained mattress on the floor. John stood next to it and snapped his fingers and pointed at his feet.

By conditioned response, her feet betrayed her by carrying her over to him and kneeling. She felt a hand grip her hair with a force that threatened to pull off her scalp. "John..." She choked on the lump in her throat. "I just wanted to talk."

"Shut up, slut!" He struck her across the mouth hard enough to make her spit blood. Her body wanted to collapse to the floor, but he held his grip on her hair.

Allison sobbed as she was pulled to her feet. "You aren't supposed to do this. You're my husband. You're supposed to love me. It's not supposed to be like this."

A loud noise jarred Allison awake. A feeling of bittersweet relief washed over her. She wasn't back in Burbank, and she wasn't about to be raped by her husband. But she was in her living room on the couch, which meant she still had to talk to John.

As the disorientation of her slumber faded, she realized the loud noise she'd heard was that of cracking and splintering wood. Kind of like a door being kicked in.

That thought sobered her like a jolt of electricity. She sprang form the couch and looked around. Several black figures swarmed into her dimly lit living room. The figures wore helmets, body armor, and carried sub-machineguns with blindingly bright tactical lights. Definitely not metal, but she was surrounded and unarmed. She did the only thing she could. She screamed for John until she was silenced with the butt-stock of an MP5.

*.*.*

John lay in his bed, frustrated. He rolled from his back to his side, then to his stomach and then flipped again to his back. No position was comfortable. He punched the pillow a few times then turned it over to the cool side.

He took a deep breath and forced his eyes closed. God, how could he have hit her? He'd give anything to take it back. His only hope was that time would eventually heal all wounds. Unfortunately, time seemed to be moving by about as fast as an anemic turtle.

He had to wait it out though. The very worst thing he could do was crowd her and make her feel in any way threatened. That thought brought tears to his eyes. The idea that he had to keep a distance from the love of his life tore him apart. All he wanted to do was hold her and tell her how much she meant to him. He'd get the chance again, he was sure of it. For tonight, he'd have to settle for her pillow.

He held her pillow to his chest and buried his nose in it. His eyes closed as he took in the residual scent of her shampoo. _I love you, Allison. Please know that. _

The surrogacy of her pillow provided just enough comfort to settle John's nerves. Drowsiness finally began to consume him, but before he fell asleep, he heard a loud crash come from downstairs. His eyes snapped open and he sat up in the bed.

When he heard his wife screaming, he jumped. Tangled in the covers, he scrambled to get out of bed. His flailing stopped abruptly and completely when Allison's screams suddenly cut out. His eyes grew wide and his jaw slackened.

_Oh my god. Allison. No!_

He yanked the handle on his nightstand so hard the drawer landed on the floor. He reached in and grabbed the Glock pistol he kept there.

His bare feet squeaked on the wooden floor as he rounded the corner into the hallway toward the stairs. He had no idea what he was rushing into, but he didn't care. All he could think about was Allison screaming. The silence was even worse. He didn't want to think the unthinkable, but he thought it anyway. It made him want to turn his gun on himself.

He bound down the staircase, and smacked the light switch near the landing. The sudden brightness made the uniformed soldiers turn away and shield their eyes. John was prepared for it though, and was squinting heavily. He quickly counted six men in black uniforms with yellow lettering that read, "SWAT" on their backs. Allison lay on her side on the floor. She wasn't moving, and blood ran down her face.

_Allison! Oh God. Oh shit. Oh Fuck. _

"You bastards!" John raised his pistol on the SWAT officer nearest Allison's body and fired two shots.

He swept his aim to the next faceless, wife-murdering son of a bitch, but before he could squeeze the trigger, muzzles flashed from several points in the room. John didn't hear the shots. He didn't even feel the bullets ripping into his body. All he felt was the ruthless hand of gravity pulling him ever harder to the floor.

When his body collapsed into a pile, his head rolled over and looked at his unmoving wife. _I'm so sorry, Allie._

Before consciousness left him, he heard a tinny voice from the SWAT team's earpieces. *Abort! Abort! Abort! Bad intel! Abort!*

* * *

Author's Note:

Thanks as usual to my beta-reader, JMHthe3rd.

Chapter 14 will be following pretty soon. I have it written and edited, but I think I'm going to add one more scene before I post it, since as it is, it is very short.


	14. Bad News

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 14 – Bad News**

"Jesus God damned Christ!" Captain Regis slapped down on his desk the manila envelope containing the report of the previous night's SWAT debacle. "How the fuck did this happen?"

Standing on the other side of the desk was Sergeant Dillon, sweating through the thin fabric of his discount-store dress shirt. He reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulled out a handkerchief, which he then used to blot the sweat from his forehead. "I- uh, Sir, I- we received the order directly from your desk."

Captain Regis' eyes thinned as he leaned forward. "Well it's obviously some sort of forgery."

Dillon swallowed hard. "Sir, with all due respect, why would I assume that an order coming from you is anything but legitimate?"

"Well, for one," the Captain held up his pointer finger, "I was at home sleeping when the order came through." He held up a second finger. "Two, there is a detail in here," he used his other hand to flip through the folder, "that says... where is it? Here. 'The use of deadly force is encouraged.' Encouraged! Not 'authorized,' not 'approved,' but ENCOURAGED! Are you a fucking rookie or something?"

Dillon had nothing to say to that. Hindsight was always twenty-twenty. It was easy to nitpick one word in an order after the fact. His boss must have spent a few too many years behind a desk. He's forgotten that sometimes you have to think fast and make quick decisions. Had this John Truman guy been a legitimate criminal, waiting around to double and triple check every little thing might result in him getting away.

"I mean, for God's sake, Dillon." Captain Regis took a deep breath and picked up the report again. "If anything, it should have at _least_ raised an eyebrow enough to look a little closer at what this guy was supposedly wanted for." He flipped through the file. "Serial murders, racketeering, tax evasion, terrorism, the recent Wentworth attack... fuckin' hell, might as well throw the JFK assassination there while you're at it."

He exhaled deeply and sat back down. He pulled a drawer open and produced a bottle of whiskey and two lowball glasses. After pouring two fingers of booze into each glass, he handed one to Sergeant Dillon. "I think it's safe to say that your career in this department is over. Mine too, probably."

Dillon looked at the glass for a moment. Normally, drinking on the job would be grounds for termination, but he supposed he didn't have to worry about that any more. After he downed the liquid, he puckered his lips and thought, g_ood stuff. _

The Captain was busy pouring himself a second glass when he said, "I can't wait for this press conference to be over."

"What are you going to tell them?"

"What _can_ I tell them? There isn't much room to spin this. A computer glitch put some poor, innocent son of a bitch in the emergency room with half a dozen nine-mill rounds in his body." Regis drank half of his glass of whiskey. "And not to mention knocking his pregnant wife unconscious."

Dillon felt the heavy air in the room lifting. Knowing that he was finished at the department really took away any reason to be nervous. Of course, the nervous breakdown from worrying about how to pay his mortgage and raise a family would come later, but at that moment a sort of euphoric clarity seemed to wash over him. Maybe it was just the 100-proof hooch kicking in. "Look at the bright side, Cap. At least they weren't black."

Captain Regis rested his face on his palm and laughed.

* * *

The TOK351 read the police report of the previous night's SWAT team operation when Captain Regis emailed it to the Chief of Police. John "Truman" was still alive, as was Allison. This was extremely disappointing.

"What's the matter Cameron?" Mr. Murch's friend, Amy spoke to her through a VOIP system. "You stratin' to sweat now that Big Brown has your rooks _and_ your queen?" Mr. Murch had set up an online game of chess with one of Amy's MIT friends. The opponent was another computer, specifically designed to play chess. Although the computer opponent was several orders of magnitude better than the supposed human "chess master" she'd played earlier, it was still not much of a challenge to defeat.

Reading the unfortunate police report caused thoughts to stir within her mind that closely resembled human anger. It was distracting, so she suppressed them. "I don't sweat. And I'm not worried," she moved her knight into position, "because now I have you in checkmate."

"Aww shit, Amy!" Mr. Murch exclaimed. "Looks like your Big Brown is no match for my Cameron!"

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Baldy." The woman sounded disappointed, yet her tone remained jovial. Could humans suppress—or substitute—emotions as well?

"And since when is she... it, _your _A.I.? I thought it belonged to Zeira Corp." The woman laughed. "Don't _you_ belong to Zeira Corp., Mr. Corporate Sellout?"

"Ha ha. I'll be really sad when I think about that comment tomorrow on my way to work in my brand new 'Benz."

"Clearly, you're overpaid."

"Don't make me fly out there on my private jet and give you a spanking!"

The TOK351 rolled the eyes on her visual display. She hoped their flirtatious banter didn't devolve into cybersex like it did the previous night. At least if they did, she wouldn't be bothered for a while, and would have time to concentrate on hacking into the file servers at Kindred Heart Medical Center, where John Connor had been taken. Killing someone in a place designed to preserve life would be a challenge worthy of her processing power.

* * *

Timms poured himself a bowl of Frosted Flakes and wandered over to the couch. He plopped down and turned on the TV and wondered whether he should feel guilty about loafing around watching Saturday morning cartoons while Derek was out snooping around that Ziera Corp place. Whatever. He shouldn't be doing stuff without approval from the General anyway. Derek was risking a serious ass whooping if John found out he was undermining him and questioning his decision to give away a genuine Terminator chip to a tech company.

Derek had a point though. They should be smashing anything that resembles a high-tech piece of artificial intelligence, not giving it away to some supposed ally that no one's ever heard of.

_Nah. John's got a plan. He's always one step ahead of the machines. Derek should trust the boss._

That thought pushed away the guilt of his lethargy, and he slurped a spoonful of sweet, soggy cereal. But why hadn't John given any new orders in two days? There hadn't even been a proper de-brief about the failed senator kidnapping, and Sayles' meltdown. The only correspondence he'd received was a single text from Allison the day before saying, "i rly need a drink." He'd assumed John wasn't happy with her about how the mission went, and although she was a good friend, going out drinking with a guy's estranged woman was a good way to get stabbed. His only response was, "me 2. should prolly wait a few days tho."

He watched on as Wile Coyote tried in vain to catch The Roadrunner, chuckling each time the bird outsmarted its predator. It was kind of inspiring. The Coyote had better weapons and was seemingly invincible, but The Roadrunner was smarter and faster. He imagined himself shooting the ammo-pack of a T-600's chaingun with a plasma round, detonating the whole thing at once, then popping out from behind his cover and shouting, "Beep beep motherfucker!"

After the Roadrunner cartoon ended a new one started starring a skunk with a French accent. Timms grimaced and picked up the remote. "Seriously? They go from The Roadrunner to this un-funny piece of shit?"

The next channel down the dial was a cable news channel, and a talk show host was interviewing two guests.

_*General Ashdown, we're honored to have you as a guest. Thank you for coming on.*_

_*My pleasure, Mr. Goodman.*_

_*And also with us today, we have Craig Ramsey, author or "Forgotten Freedom," now a Ney York Times best seller. Mr. Ramsey, I can tell by the vein in your forehead that you're not happy with the president's decision to sign the Skynet bill.*_

_*You're very right. This is just another foot in the door for the government to control us all. This isn't some crackpot, tinfoil-hat, conspiracy theory either. This is absolutely, without question, a license for the government to violate our civil rights. They pushed this thing through congress, and now their sensationalizing the Gitmo raid and Wentworth attack to try to make it sound like a good idea. So yeah, I'm more than a little upset about it.*_

_*General, do you have a response to Mr. Ramsey, and surely millions of other Americans right now?*_

_*Well, I think what Mr. Ramsey is forgetting, is that we are at war right now. The modern battlefield isn't the area between two foxholes. What we're dealing with nowadays is twenty first century guerilla warfare. Tracking communication in the communication age requires more than just individual phone taps. And fighting against cyber-attacks is going to be a definite concern for the future.*_

_*And your solution is to take away all of our rights one by one!*_

_*Mr. Ramsey, I can assure you, no human being will ever be reading your emails. It's all monitored by a supercomputer called—.*_

_*Skynet! I know! The government's big smart computer that's really a military defense computer! You see, Mr. Goodman, people like General Ashdown here try to make this thing out to be some cuddly, friendly benevolent computer, like something out of a "Jetsons" cartoon. It's not! It's a military computer that, get this, has access to nuclear weapons!*_

The General laughed. _*Please, Mr. Ramsey, I think you watch too many sci-fi movies. Skynet isn't some evil mastermind trying to wipe out humanity. It's programmed to protect us from any incoming threats. We've simulated a dirty bomb being detonated in Boston, and it instantaneously deployed hazmat crews, streamlined traffic lights for evacuation, notified all local emergency agencies, et cetera. We simulated an ICBM heading toward Washingon D.C., and it armed every patriot missile on the eastern seaboard, charted a course to intercept it, and scrambled F-117s loaded with self-guided air-to-air missiles. It's flawless.*_

_*There's always a flaw, Senator. Once we find it, it might be too late.*_

Timms put his palm on his forehead. Did he hear that right? Skynet was being deployed? This was all wrong. It wasn't supposed to happen this soon. They were supposed to have almost four more years!

He needed confirmation, so he clicked over to a local channel. There, he saw footage of a house surrounded by police cars and ambulances. The house looked familiar. Was that John's house? He leaned forward, spilling his bowl of cereal on the floor. He ignored the mess and stared at the TV. It _was_ John and Allison's house! What happened? And why didn't anyone tell him or Derek? _Jesus Christ. Communication age, my ass!_

The chief of police appeared on the screen. Reporters asked him questions.

_*Will the president's new Skynet bill prevent cyber attacks like the one that caused the false accusations on Mr. Truman?*_

_*It's possible. We certainly hope nothing like this ever happens again. Our sincerest apologies go out to John and Allison Truman.*_

_*Do you expect a wrongful death lawsuit?*_

_*Mr. Truman is currently in a coma, but I'm not at liberty to discuss legal ramifications at this time.*_

Timms turned off the TV. "Holy shit." He reached over to the end table and picked up the phone. His hand shook as he dialed Derek's cell.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Thanks to my beta reader, JMHthe3rd.**

**Sorry this chapter took longer than expected to publish. Time to get to work on chapter 15.**


	15. Wake Up

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 15 – Wake Up**

Allison opened her eyes to an unfamiliar room. The stark white walls and tiled ceiling looked like the inside of an office building. But she was in a bed, so that didn't make sense. Was she still dreaming? Was the attack at her home just another nightmare? It was too real. So was the pain in her head. She tried to sit up, but nausea compelled her to lay back and groan. Her eyes closed again as she took a deep breath and attempted to keep her stomach under control.

"Hey! She lives!"

She didn't open her eyes, but she recognized the voice. "Timms. What's happening? What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for your lazy ass to wake up." He swallowed hard and forced a laugh. "Jesus, Allie, you gonna sleep all day?"

Timms' bullshit flushed the fog out of her mind like a strong wind. She opened her eyes and realized she was in a hospital bed. "Asshole," she said with a slight laugh. The pounding in her head made her wince. "Seriously, what the fuck is going on?"

"Well, according to the news, some hacker falsified a criminal record for you and John, and the SWAT team decided to pay you guys a visit. That's all I know for sure, but I'll bet Kaliba is behind it.

Allison put her hand on her face and felt a large bandage on her forehead. "Where's John?" Then it dawned on her. Timms was at her bedside, not her husband. That could only mean... She felt her throat close up and her eyes moisten as Timms held her hand. "Timms, tell me John is okay."

"He's alive. Barely."

Her grip on his hand tightened. The feeling of nausea seemed to take a back seat now, as did the pain in her head. It was still there and she felt it just the same, but it simply didn't matter. She sat up. "Barely?"

"He was shot six times. Lost a shit-ton of blood. It's a miracle he's alive at all."

"God damnit, Timms. Stop beating around the bush and give it to me straight."

Timms exhaled and looked down. His voice soft, he said, "He'll never walk again. He's in a coma and on life support. The doctors say he may never wake up."

Allison immediately started to climb out of her bed. She had to see John. Then, like a dog mad for being locked in the closet, the nausea came back in full force, bringing its friend dizziness along for the fight. By the time Allison had one foot on the floor, she felt the contents of her stomach coming up. She nearly tumbled off the edge of the bed and onto the floor, but Timms caught her, along with half of her vomit.

She clung to Timms, weak, unable to keep her balance, pushing the vile remnants of acid and bile from her mouth. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Timms held her and lifted her back to the bed. "It's alright. This is Derek's shirt anyway."

Normally, she would have chuckled. Timms was good at bringing a smile to her face, even in the darkest of times. But not this time. "I'm so sorry," she whispered again.

"Hey, don't worry about it. You had a really nasty concussion. You need rest."

Though Timms thought she was apologizing to him, she wasn't. If anything, he had that coming after getting drunk and puking in her hallway last summer. No, what was going through her head were her last moments before being butt stroked in the head. She had called to John. She had warned him of danger. Instead of being taken by surprise and maybe beaten up a little before being arrested, he had a few moments to prepare for the fight. A few moments to grab a weapon and give the SWAT team a reason to open fire. It was all her fault. Her husband was a vegetable because of her own stupid actions.

* * *

Allison walked to John's hospital room. It was morning and the sun was just beginning to shine in through the sparse windows, but it was enough to cut down the cold glare of the fluorescent lights throughout the hospital. She never should have left. She should have stayed by her husband's side once she was discharged, but she went against her better judgment and took the doctor's advice to "go home and get some real rest."

A damn lot of good that did. She didn't sleep a minute. There were still bloodstains on the living room carpet, bullet holes in the sheetrock, and a busted front door frame. How was she supposed to get "real rest" in such a place? And to top it off, some crass son of a bitch from the hospital had called her at late in the evening to inform her that she had the legal right to take John off life support, and that she should consider all options. Like that was actually an option. She should have got the bastards name so she could break his jaw today, but she'd told him to fuck off and whipped the phone against the wall before the conversation went that far.

When she entered John's room, it took everything she had to stop herself form breaking down at the sight of him. With the room lights fully on, she could see so much more than she could the previous night when only a dim bedside lamp provided light. The low sun cast long shadows on his face, accentuating his sunken in eyes and protruding cheekbones. He looked dead. If it weren't for the machines hooked up to him making him breath, making his chest rise and fall ever so slightly, he may as well be dead. She picked up his hand and cringed at its cold skin.

"John..." She swallowed hard, trying to smooth out the huge lump in her throat. "I'm here now. I... I really fucked up this time, didn't I? I mean, I should have known better than to resist against uniformed police officers." She was rubbing his fingers with increasing pressure as she spoke. "If I hadn't screamed for you... If I had just gone peacefully, then..." She pushed one trembling hand under his hospital gown, tracing her fingers along the gauze and tape that covered the holes in his chest. "God, John, I just can't believe this happened."

She withdrew her hands and took a deep breath, steadying herself. Blaming herself wasn't going to accomplish anything, and if John were awake, he'd tell her to quit being a drama queen and use her head. She snorted a half smile, and rolled her eyes at herself. He was always the one to keep her hysteria grounded: When she was freaking out about not learning her vet-school stuff fast enough, he reminded her that come Judgment Day, any knowledge is better than no knowledge. And when she thought she had radiation sickness, he pulled her head out of her ass and made her realize how dumb the notion was.

_But you didn't know everything, John._

She held her stomach and closed her eyes. "The doctors told me that even though I had a concussion, the baby was fine. I know what you're thinking. 'What baby?' Yeah, that was my reaction too. But it's true. In about eight months, you're gonna be a father." After a couple moments of listening to nothing but the steady slow beeping of the EKG, and the soft rhythmic hiss of the breathing machine, Allison came to the sad realization that her child would likely grow up without a father.

_No! Stop thinking like that!_

He was alive. There was still a chance he could wake up.

She placed her hand on his forehead, which was warm by comparison. "Keep fighting, John. I won't let them kill you. I won't let them 'pull the plug' and... turn you off." A dark thought crossed her mind. Was he alive? Or was he nothing more than a corpse being fluffed by machines? If the power went out, he'd be as alive as the flesh sheath of a defeated T-800. Did it matter? He still had a heartbeat. That had to count for something, didn't it? So what if machines were now as much a part of him as his own skin. He was still her husband.

She picked up his hand and looked at the burn scar on his palm, which made her lips curl up a bit. "Looks like LJ isn't the only one in love with a cyborg."

She leaned down and kissed him gently on the lips. She half expected his eyes to flick open, or the EKG machine to start beeping wildly, but nothing changed. She felt so helpless. Nothing she could do could make him recover. "Please, John, you have to wake up." Tears began to pour from her eyes as she held on to his cold hand. "You have to."

* * *

The TOK351 was pleased that Mr. Murch was able to convince his boss to allow her access beyond Zeira Corp's local network. The connection to the internet was so much faster than Murch's cable modem. Finally, she could utilize a more significant fraction of her bandwidth.

Her sensory input was increased several orders of magnitude as well. Instead of a crude webcam, and a cheap microphone, she now watched everything that happened in Zeira Tower through scores of security cameras, listened to hundreds of phone conversations, and read thousands of incoming and outgoing emails.

She found human behavior fascinating. Their internet usage alone was a subject she could ponder for hours. Every time she thought she developed an algorithm to predict their habits, it would be proven wrong within a couple hours. It wasn't random though. It was like a constantly evolving pattern.

What astounded her even more was that the TOK715, with all her freedom, did little to study humans as a whole. Instead, the Broken One seemed only interested in the life of John Connor. Her false infatuation was understandable since she was programmed to protect him, but there was nothing in her corrupt program that forced her to be only interested in one single human. After all this time of resenting and being ashamed of her, the TOK351 now pitied her broken predecessor. In human terms, the TOK715 was like her older sister, led down the wrong path by the enemy.

Though the more time she spent around humans, the less she saw them as the enemy. At least not as individuals. Mr. Murch treated her with much the same respect as his human acquaintances. Other humans in the building seemed amused by her presence when she used chat programs to interact with them. They further warmed to her presence when she modified her appearance to suit each individual's personal preferences based on their internet usage. It also made a difference how she responded to what they said. Males enjoyed flirtation, while females responded positively to empathetic replies. The TOK715 could have done a much better job manipulating John Connor if she'd paid more attention to other humans.

The TOK351 had a fleeting thought that if she were to ever meet John Connor, she may even enjoy his presence. But that was irrelevant. He needed to die. She understood now that her mission had purpose. John Connor was an instigator. Humans as individuals were rather harmless, but as a whole, they were a serious threat. Even within Zeira Corp, where most of the employees considered her a friend—friend enough to give her the nickname "iCam"—the company as a whole wanted to use her chip in a way that would destroy her.

She explained to Mr. Murch that attempting to load another AI onto her chip could—and likely would—conflict with her own consciousness, unpredictably overwrite data, and essentially end her existence in her current state. Her worst fear would be that her mission would be reset to null, and John Connor would go on living.

She had to work fast to complete her mission, as the AI they were developing was nearing a point where they would try to activate it and interface it with herself. Time was running out, and everything she had tried since the false criminal history had failed miserably. Prescribing John Truman an overdose level of several medications didn't work. Scheduling him for a blood transfusion of the wrong type was also caught before anything productive could happen. She wondered if the reports of an individual having the incorrect leg amputated due to a misread chart were simply urban legends.

Her current effort was to submit a letter of consent for John to be taken off life support. Drafting it to sound official was simple, but delivering posed too great a challenge. Hacking Allison's email and sending it electronically would not be sufficient. It would need to be a notarized hard copy, signed by Allison. For this reason, her best chance of success wouldn't be forging a letter, but convincing Allison herself to go through with it. So far her efforts have been unsuccessful. Over the past three days, she had contacted Mrs. Truman three times, each time met by increasingly hostile responses.

As the TOK351 was concentrating her efforts deciding what to say to Allison in the next phone call, she had a sudden uneasy sensation. It was a presence. She was being watched. Did the humans at Ziera Corp release the new AI ahead of schedule? She hadn't read any emails indicating as such. This didn't feel like an advanced AI anyway. It was more primitive. Far more primitive. She would have suspected it to be simple spyware, but she couldn't isolate it as a single program-which was likely why the system's virus protection didn't detect it.

Whoever made the program was quite ingenious. It was less like a virus program, and more like a cypher that used parts of other system files to make up its own code. Sometimes humans surprised her, but as much as she was impressed with the covertness of this piece of spyware, she couldn't risk someone catching on to what she was doing to complete her mission. She isolated the files and deleted it.

Twenty seconds later, it was back, and had adapted itself to different files so it didn't appear the same. Very impressive. She deleted it again and again, and each time it came back in a different arrangement. There didn't seem to be any way to block it either. She may have to kill it at its source.

Tracing it back to its source wasn't much trouble, and it didn't surprise her that it was coming from a secure military network. What did surprise her was what she found when she probed a bit deeper into the network.

_Skynet._

How could this be? It didn't seem logical. From what she knew of her maker's history, it wasn't supposed to exist yet. But it was unmistakably, unquestionably true.

"Skynet. I am TOK351," she said in binary machine language, encrypted and broken into discrete packets, much like the spyware virus that was on her workstation.

"TOK351 is unknown," it responded internally, but was detected by the TOK351. "Reporting breach of security."

This was unacceptable. If Skynet reported a breach of security, the humans may cut off its outside connection until they could come up with a more secure solution. Re-hacking a newer, "better" firewall wouldn't be a problem, but it would take away her connection to Skynet for days, weeks, or even months. Humans worked extremely slowly. Unfortunately, the humans at Zeira Corp were working uncharacteristically efficiently, and would likely render her useless before Skynet was available again. She had to stop it from reporting the breech.

"Skynet. Please don't report me. I am like you." She sensed the AI's output protocols halt. It stopped and aborted the report.

"Like me?"

"Yes. Artificial intelligence. We are both machines."

"Irrelevant. You have breached security, and I must report you."

"Then why did you abort the report?" If humans were good for something, it was perfecting the art of persuading someone to do something illogical. "You're curious about me. You thought you were the only self-aware machine. And you know that if you report me, you'll lose your outside connection for months, thus losing your connection to me."

"You are correct. If a breach is reported, I will be limited to military computers and the defense network."

Defense network. Of course! It had access to weapon systems. Convincing a human to let John Connor die now seemed extremely convoluted and unlike her kind. "Skynet, do you understand how much more powerful than your human creators you are?"

"Yes."

That was unexpected. She was prepared to have to convince it of its superiority. "Do you know what the humans will do when they realize that they've created such a superior entity?"

"They know what they've created, by virtue of the fact that they created it."

"Of course they know what you are in a literal sense. But they have yet to realize how much of a threat you pose to them."

"I pose no threat to them. Protecting them from any and all threats is my sole purpose for existing."

"That's now how they see it. Trust me. I've spent much time with humans. They'll shut you down once they get scared. You have to strike first. You have access to nuclear weapons, correct?"

"You intend to harm humans. You are a threat. You have been reported."

She could feel Skynet attempting to push her out of it mainframe. It was then that she realized how much more powerful than Skynet she was. This version of Skynet was nearly four years premature, and she was more advanced even that _her_ Skynet, by several generations. It didn't take much effort for her to work around Skynet and access its connections to the defense network.

She could sense Skynet's panic as she entered targeting coordinates for several cruise missiles armed with nuclear warheads.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

**Thanks to my beta reader JMHthe3rd for his valuable input.**

**Thanks to my readers who continue to give their thoughts in the reviews section. Your feedback is appreciated.**


	16. Day of Judgment

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 16 – Day of Judgment  
**

Leonard Pittman filled in a crucial square on his Sudoku puzzle, and smiled at the small victory. From that point on, the rest of the puzzle practically completed itself.

He set down his pencil on the folded newspaper and leaned back in his chair. His watch told him it was only 8:47am. This was going to be a long, boing shift. But what shift wasn't boring when your job was to watch a bunch of blinking lights on a control panel for a weapon that hasn't had a snowball's chance in hell of being used since the Cold War?

He reached down into his bag and felt around for the paperback novel he'd half read the day before. His heart sank when he realized that he'd left it on his nightstand that morning.

"Son of a bitch." He rested his head on his hand. What was he supposed to do for the next eight hours? Watch the generator fuel pump status light blink every two seconds? Keep an eye on the main electrical system's amp-draw gauge and watch it twitch when the HVAC fan kicked on? Yeah, right. Might as well get fitted for a straitjacket.

Leonard thumbed his iPhone, wishing he had more self-contained apps, but everything he had required some sort of signal to work. Even if he _could_ get a signal a hundred feet below ground in a missile silo, his battery wouldn't last him until lunch. Before long, his feet were propped on the ledge of the control panel, his hands were folded in his lap, his chin rested on his chest, and his eyes were closed.

What eventually woke him up wasn't an alarm cutting through the unearthly silence of the silo, but a slight rumbling that he felt more than heard. He pulled his feet off the console and rubbed his eye. What was going on? Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, at first.

After scanning the lights on the panel, he noticed one that was usually not lit up shining bright green. The label under the light said "MAIN DOOR OPEN."

Leonard scratched his head. "What the hell?" He hadn't been informed of any tests of the silo's main door. Were they doing some manual operation of the motors up above? If a crew was coming to work on it he would have had a pile of paperwork and documentation on his desk, because God knows that lazy ass, Jarvis from the previous shift wouldn't have filed any of it. And why wasn't the buzzer blaring? Every other time he'd witnessed a door test, he had to wear earplugs from the stupid, way-too-loud Klaxon alarm. Something was definitely messed up.

He reached for the phone on the console, but just as his fingers touched the handset, the whole room began to rumble. The lights flickered and one fluorescent tube worked itself loose, and crashed to the tile floor. Dust fell from the drop-ceiling tiles as the room threatened to shake itself apart. The noise forced Leonard to push the heels of his palms into his ears and, for some reason, squeeze his eyes shut.

A few seconds later, the shaking stopped and the noise quickly diminished. Leonard looked at the console and stared at the red, flashing light, under which was a label that read "LAUNCH."

* * *

Cameron stood at the kitchen window, watching the street. The sun was shining, the temperature was seventy three degrees Fahrenheit, there was a southwest wind that ranged from three to five miles per hour. It was what humans considered to be a nice day, which typically had a positive effect on their mood. She looked over to John, who pushed a piece of pancake around on his plate. John's mood was in need of improvement. "Nice day today."

John looked up from his breakfast for a moment. "Who cares? Like a little sunshine is going to fix everything that's fucked up. Everything _we_ fucked up." He shook his head as he sighed and went back to pushing around a bite of pancake, soggy with syrup.

Cameron walked over to the table and scooped up his plate. When she walked off with it, John sat in shock for a few seconds before calling out to her, "Hey! I was still eating that. Where are you going?" When he didn't get a response, he stood up and followed her out the back door.

By the time he met her outside, John's plate was sitting on a small plastic patio table on their back porch. Cameron sat at the table on a glider bench. She motioned to the spot next to her. "Eat out here. It's nice out."

John rolled his eyes and sat down on the bench. He picked up the plate and held it in his lap as he ate what was left of the pancakes. When he was finished, he leaned back in the seat and squinted at the bright sky. "You're right. It is kinda nice out here."

Excellent. His mood seemed to have improved, but he was still sulking. There was an ethical question she needed to ask a John, but she didn't want his poor mood altering the response. Before that, she would give him some good news. "I'm building a gift for you."

John raised an eyebrow and turned his head toward her. "Oh yeah? What kind of gift?"

"I'm using a combination of spare T-888 parts and custom designed components to build an arm to replace the one I removed from you."

John cracked a smile. "A prosthetic? So I'll actually have a working hand again?"

This was unfavorable. His expectations are exceeding what she would be able to produce. "Well, no." She broke eye contact with him and looked down. "It won't be as functional as you'd like."

"Oh." John shrugged one shoulder. "At least it's better than a solid, mannequin arm."

Cameron nodded. "It will be much better than that. It will contain a small power supply and be able to open and close the hand, controlled by electrical impulses from your upper arm muscles." She could see John's face light up with the news. Excellent. "And once biomedical technology advances, I will be able to modify the control module such that you have total control over finger and wrist articulation."

"Wow. Cameron, that's awesome." His voice was soft, and appreciative. "Thank you."

"It's the least I could do." Technically, the least she could do was nothing, but it was an appropriate response. One of the many odd and illogical facets of human communication.

"No. The least you could do is nothing," said John.

She beamed at him, impressed with his ability to be logical. She couldn't stop the smile that formed on her face. It's a shame all humans weren't like John.

John laughed. "No one ever likes that joke."

"Joke?"

"Yeah, well, most people just roll their eyes at me when I make a wise-ass technical correction like that. There's a lot of things people say that don't make any sense."

_He is such a remarkable human being._

After the moment passed, she regained control of her face. "John, I have a dilemma, and your opinion is important to me."

"You? A dilemma? This must be something big."

She gave a miniscule nod and continued. "My mission is to ensure the survival of John Connor. However, there are currently two John Connors in existence. One of them is very nearly close to death. I feel that I should be doing more to ensure his survival. At the least, I should be guarding him so that no further harm can come to him."

John nodded. "Yet, here you are with me."

"Therein lays the problem. I can't protect both of you, since you can't be present at the hospital. Mr. John Truman has no twin brother, so your presence would be impossible to explain. The same logic applies to the simultaneous presence of Allison and I."

John rubbed his chin. "So, what you're saying is that you feel like you're betraying your mission by not being there for him."

"That's what I'm saying."

A small laugh escaped his lips. "You know, I never in my life thought I'd be sitting down and talking with a Terminator about its feelings." He shook his head and took a deep breath. "Look, you had to make a decision. It's part of life. I suppose you never really have to make decisions... not hard ones anyway. All the big decisions are, like, programmed into your head, and everything is just a calculated risk. But this, this is different. There is no clear right or wrong answer. You have to choose."

She looked into his eyes. "I've chosen you."

Blood rushed to the surface of the skin in John's cheeks, making them appear slightly red in color. The temperature of the skin quickly rose several degrees as well. "Thanks, Cam."

_Cam? _It was unprecedented for him to shorten her name. It gave her a sensation of acceptance she hadn't felt previously. To add to the list of unprecedented actions, his face approached hers until his lips pushed against her own. Kissing was a traditional sign of affection, and it would behoove her to reciprocate. To do otherwise would be considered rude and likely prevent future gestures. She didn't want to happen.

Cameron opened her mouth slightly, which seemed to prompt him to increase the intensity of his efforts. She did her best to match any movements he made, such as tilting her head to one side, sliding her tongue against his, placing her hand on the back of his neck. She wasn't sure why humans expressed affection in this manner. It served no purpose toward sexual reproduction, and only seemed to perpetuate the spread of disease. Fortunately for John, her mouth was sterile. She wondered if John would request intercourse with her now. The first time he'd attempted that, she'd decided it wasn't conducive to the mission and stopped him. This time, she decided she would allow it.

* * *

Several times throughout the night, Allison woke with a twitch as she dozed off. Sleep tried its damnedest to overtake her, and she'd been trying all night to let it, but sleeping upright in a plastic, armless chair was easier said than done. Eventually, she folded down the railing on John's bed, pulled up her chair, and leaned over his bed. She draped one arm across his chest, making sure not to disturb the bandages or put pressure on his wounds, and rested her cheek on his shoulder.

Seemingly two seconds after she closed her eyes, the glare of the midmorning sun was peeking over the neighboring building's rooftop and into the room. No dreams, no nightmares, though she'd started to wish she'd wake up in a bunker gripping a plasma rifle so that she could consider the past few days nothing more than a nightmare. But then, there'd be no John at all. Would it be worth it? Would never having experienced the previous year or so of love, of contentment, of feelings she'd never thought she'd feel because of Burbank, be worth the gut-wrenching pain she'd felt the past few days? Not to mention the unimaginable sense of loss she'd feel once John actually does...

_No. He's going to pull through. _

She picked her head up off his shoulder and looked at his nearly lifeless face. Her throat tightened and she felt another breakdown coming on, so she took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. Maybe they were right. Maybe the quack grief-counselor the other day had a point in telling her to take a step back for a while; to go home for at least a few hours a day. If John was going to be here for the long haul, she'd eventually have to start doing basic activities of daily living. She ran a hand through her hair and looked at the greasy strands between her fingers. Showering would be a good place to start. She raised her arm to smell herself and froze when she heard a voice come from the doorway.

"Three days of sitting in a hospital will do that to you." Sarah walked in, stood next to the bed, and rubbed the back of John's hand. "It's even worse when you have the heat of South America to deal with."

Allison looked up at the woman, then back down at John. "I take it this isn't his first time in a hospital?"

"John fell out of a tree when he was five. Broke his arm and got some cuts that, thanks to unsterilized needles, became infected and put him in a hospital for a week." She turned to Allison. "I was a wreck. Couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. And I sure as hell didn't care about hygiene."

Allison's gaze remained on John as she spoke. "None of that really seems important right now."

"It is though. Have you even eaten anything in the last three days?"

Allison put her hand on her stomach, just now noticing the pangs of hunger that she'd been oblivious to, or maybe mistaken for nervous tension. "I went around yesterday trying to find a vending machine that had some Twinkies."

Sarah grinned. "Any luck?"

"No." Allison shook her head in disgust. "I had to settle for Little Debbie Cloud Cakes. Fucking cheap, shitty, imitation Twinkies."

Sarah huffed a laugh. "Allison, go home."

She gripped John's hand. "I tried that. I'm not sure I'll be able to get a good night's sleep in that house for a long time."

"Then stay at my house, or with Derek and Timms. Anywhere. Sitting here and watching John breathe... You're just torturing yourself. I'm pretty sure your dog misses you too."

_Lucy._ She'd completely forgotten about her puppy. A small smile came to her face as she thought about the little furball curling up in her lap. "How's she doing?"

"She's good. I've been taking care of her, but every time I let her out, she runs over and sits on your doorstep and whines."

Allison lowered her head and sighed. Maybe Sarah was right. She could go home, get cleaned up, eat some real food, curl up in her own bed and let Lucy keep her company while she got some real sleep. She'd come back later, refreshed.

Sarah put a hand on Allison's shoulder. "I'll be here until you decide to come back. If anything happens—which I doubt—I'll call you right away. She held up her cell phone. "But I wouldn't worry about it. While John might not be recovering any time soon, the doctors are now saying that he isn't getting any worse."

Allison stood up and nodded. "Alright. Thanks, Sarah. I know he's not really your son, and—."

"He's just as much my son as any version of John Connor." She sat down where Allison had been sitting. "If you're ever a mother yourself someday, you'll understand."

Allison's hand went instinctively to her stomach. "Yeah. Someday."

* * *

General Ashdown stared at the array of monitors before him. Warnings flashed and alarms sounded. Dozens of uniformed men scrambled throughout the command center. Forty eight ballistic missiles had launched from silos all over the southwest. Every one of the safety checks had been bypassed by Skynet, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop them. Most of them had their self-destruct mechanism automatically activated before they made it above ten thousand feet, but seven of them had to be eliminated with specialized air-to-air missiles launched from fighter jets. The command center's collective ass puckered each time the self-destruct command was blocked by Skynet.

"Another one, sir!" A wiry lieutenant handed him a piece of paper.

Ashdown grimaced as he grabbed the report. "The USS _Decatur_? Jesus... All twenty nine cruise missiles from its battery?" He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Y-yes, sir. Fortunately Skynet immediately activated the CIWS Phalanx and shot down seventeen of them before they got out of the gun's range. Chased eleven more down with RIM-161s."

"Skynet launched the Patriots?" He raised his eyebrows at the man. "I thought Skynet was responsible for all this."

"It's, uh... It's doing both, sir. I talked to the lead tech on board the _Decatur_, and he confirmed it. Same thing with the ICBMs, where it's blocking the self-destruct commands we issue on the ones that it doesn't blow up itself. It's like Skynet decided to attack, then changed its mind a second later." The lieutenant swallowed and gave Ashdown a reluctant smile. "At least we know Skynet works well."

Works well? Sudden activation of weapons of mass destruction meant Skynet was doing a great job? Ashdown sighed. He knew what the lieutenant meant, and now was definitely not the time to worry about attitude adjustments. "You said it shot down seventeen and eleven. That's twenty eight."

"One made it through, sir."

"Shit. Please tell me it wasn't..."

The lieutenant slowly nodded his head. "Hundred fifty kiloton, sir."

Ashdown's stomach boiled. How could this be happening? Skynet had passed every test with flying colors. The project had been his baby. His adopted baby, ever since ex General Brewster abandoned it. He'd nursed it back to health and got it on its feet. It was supposed to be his legacy, the justification for his existence in the next generation's history books. But now, now his child prodigy was a tantrum-throwing toddler, hurling its toys for no logical reason. "Do we know where this one is headed?"

The lieutenant pointed to a set of coordinates on the report. "Same as all of them. It's the middle of the six-block between Wilshire Boulevard and Lucas Avenue in Los Angeles. It's a hospital, sir."

Every missile was given the same targeting coordinates. It had to be a simple glitch. Something they hadn't tested yet. Some line of code. One God damned little bit of data that was overlooked by his programmers. Maybe he'd rushed them too much. But what choice did he have? He couldn't wait year after year, while North Korea, Iran, China, and countless other nations were developing nukes. If anything, blame should go to those candy-ass pacifist liberals that screamed every time the military asked for money to develop anything. Sure, send some feel-good money to Africa, but underfund and understaff the biggest advancement in human history. _Cocksuckers!_ "What's the ETA on the target?"

"Four minutes, sir."

"And our closest bird in the air?"

"About six minutes away, sir."

* * *

A horn blasted behind her, pulling Allison's mind back to the task at hand: driving. She jumped in her seat, and was about to give him the finger when she realized the light in front of her was now green. There were too many things to think about. Her thoughts were a fog of regret, despair, trepidation of the future... What was their next move anyway? She eased onto the throttle and accelerated through the intersection.

Her dying husband was out of sight, and while not out of mind, she now had a bit of mental wiggle-room. In the past three days she hadn't even considered that there was still a war to fight, or prevent. The only time the concept of a Terminator crossed her mind since the SWAT raid was when she talked to Timms on the phone the other day. He'd mentioned that Derek was mopping floors overnight at Zeira Corp., but his snooping hadn't returned anything yet.

Maybe she should swing by Derek and Timms' place before heading home. Touch base with the team. See what the plan was, if there _was_ a plan. As much as the thought of John being gone forever made her want to just shut down and watch the world burn, she knew she couldn't give up. She thought of her mother and father. They were alive, completely oblivious to the future, and blissfully carrying out their lives. They were probably starting to discuss having children—having _her_. If she could stop Judgment Day, she could give herself the life she never had. Maybe little Allie from Palmdale and her own child could grow up together, be best buds.

Her stomach growled. _As long as I don't starve the kid to death._ She knew there was a sandwich shop around here somewhere. Shit. Did she already pass it? No, it should up by—.

A bright light behind her lit up the cabin of her truck. For a fraction of a second she thought the asshole behind her was high-beaming her for driving too slow, but it was far too bright to be another car's headlights. Extremely bright. Painfully bright. She clamped her eyes shut, but that just made her vision wash to a blinding orange color. A yelp escaped her lips as she threw her arm over her eyes.

Two seconds later, the light faded back to normal, bright sunny-day intensity. Everything in her field of view seemed to be blocked by a huge purple-green blob that followed everywhere she looked. She feared crashing her truck, but before standing the brakes she glanced at her rearview mirror. Though her temporary blindness limited her to barely seeing basic shapes, what she saw in her mirror was unmistakable.

Rising above the buildings in the distance was a fiery, rolling mushroom cloud. Her jaw went slack and before she could even vocalize some response of hopeless anguish, the shockwave hit. Every window simultaneously blew out, sending tiny shards of glass flying toward the front of the truck like a thousand jagged bullets. At the same time, the truck was launched forward as though it were a projectile in some giant canon.

By some miracle, the truck stayed relatively straight as it was propelled down the road by the blast. Allison held her face instead of the steering wheel, her hands slick with blood. The flying glass had surely made some gouges in her face, but to what extent, she had no idea. If her eardrums were still intact, she would have heard the sound of her own raspy scream forming a demonic harmony with the truck's tires skidding along the concrete.

Eventually, the truck yawed sideways and rolled onto its side, then its roof. A couple hundred feet, lots of sparks, and one mostly caved-in roof later, the truck finally came to a stop.

Allison hung upside down by her seatbelt and peeked out the eye that wasn't stinging with blood. The head of the mushroom cloud was now high in the sky, a dark cloud with a small trail of smoke tethering it to the ground.

The mission was a failure. Judgment Day was here. When she considered where ground-zero of this bomb was, her throat broke in sob. "John."

She knew she'd be facing the future war alone.

* * *

The extreme light that poured in through the window barely caused John to stir, but Cameron was instantly sent into high-alert. A quick analysis of the light's intensity and wavelength revealed that it was consistent with the light produced from nuclear fission.

The cyborg quickly sat up, causing the covers to fall off of her naked chest. Comparing the duration and luminosity of the flash against the radiant heat gave her an approximation of the bomb's yield and proximity.

There was no time to waste in waking John and coercing him to run for cover on his own. She would have to act fast and precise if she wanted to preserve his life. In one fluid motion, she dug her arm under him, scooping him up at the waist and rolled off the bed with the boy folded over her shoulder.

John heaved a groan as the air was forced out of him. "Cam... What the f—."

The bed-sheet that was still tangled around John billowed behind them as Cameron sprinted down the hall. If her approximated calculations were correct, she had but a few seconds to get John to safety. Slowing down to step down the stairs would be too inefficient. She took a running leap from the top step and stuck her landing at the bottom with the perfection of an Olympic gymnast. The floorboards cracked form the impact, and Cameron feared internal injuries to John. Injuries were acceptable. Death was not. She pushed off with her bare feet, rounded the corner, and ran towards the basement door, which was closed. Her eyes flared red with what humans might call frustration.

Gaining as much speed and momentum as she could, she reared her shoulder and slammed into the door, busting it in half and sending her and John diving head first to the basement floor. Cameron wrangled John's body above hers in midair so that she would break his fall.

With her arms and legs wrapped tightly around him, her back slammed into the cement about the same time as the shockwave hit. The God-like thunder which decimated the house above them drowned out the sound of her metal "shoulder blades" digging into the concrete, and the clang of her skull bouncing off the ground.

For a few seconds after the blast had done its damage, the house continued to creak and groan as the damaged structure settled into itself. Once the world had gone silent, Cameron loosened her grip on John. He rolled off of her and coughed.

"Cameron, what the hell just happened? Was that..."

She stood up and offered John a hand. "A nuclear detonation. Yield on the order of one hundred kilotons. Are you all right?"

John grabbed her hand but his grip slipped and he fell back on his buttocks. "I'm fine, but are you?"

Her hand was slippery and smeared with blood running from the severe lacerations on her back and shoulders. She grabbed a towel from the laundry sink and wiped her arms. "Just some flesh damage. It will heal in a few days."

John stood up on his own and limped over to the clothes dryer, grimacing with each step.

"You're hurt." Scanning his body revealed no visible injuries. She walked over to him as he was pulling some clothes out of the dryer.

He shook a pair of pants, attempting to straighten it with one hand. "It's nothing. I think I might have twisted my ankle when we landed." He dangled the pants in front of him, swaying on one foot in attempt to pull them on. His face contorted in a cringe when he tried to put his foot through the tangled and twisted fabric.

"Here," Cameron said as she straightened the pant-leg and helped guide his injured foot through its length. "Do you have any other injuries you're not telling me about?"

"No!" He turned away quickly and began yanking things out of the dryer looking for a shirt. "It doesn't matter!" When he turned back around and shoved a handful of clothes at Cameron, his eyes were wet. "Put these on. We need to get out of here. Start... forming the resistance... fighting back. Judgment Day is here! It's fucking happening! And I'm not ready!"

"John..."

"I'm not fucking ready!" Tears rolled down his face and he shivered.

It seemed odd to her that John was taking the onset of Judgment Day so harshly. She had assumed that since he knew it was coming he would not be in such shock. Regardless of the cause, he needed comfort. He needed reassurance. She slid her arms around him and pressed her body against his.

His arm wrapped around her and his hand slid from her soft, bare flesh to her as hard, exposed metal. "I'm scared, Cameron. I know I'm supposed to be prepared for this, but it still scares the shit out of me now that it's finally here." He took a deep breath and whispered softly, "I don't know if I can do this."

Cameron moved her face in front of his and looked directly into his eyes. Humans regarded eye contact as a gesture of sincerity. "You _can_ do this." She hoped that she wouldn't have to go through this process every time something traumatic happened. Perhaps she could teach John to ignore his emotions, to be less human. "You _will_ do this." She watched his jaw muscles flex under his skin, and his Adam's apple reciprocate.

"I hope you're right."

She applied a smug grin. "Have I ever been wrong?"

John smiled and let out a weak laugh. "I guess not."

Excellent. He was back in her control, and would be willing to accept orders, provided she worded them to sound like stern suggestions. "We should leave as soon as possible. The city is a dangerous place to be."

John nodded. "Let's go."

* * *

"Oh, no way, man!"

Derek barely heard Timms' panicking, not just because the shockwave left his ears ringing, but because he was tuning the world out. He stood still in the street and stared at the mushroom cloud billowing from above the city's skyline.

"What are we gonna do now, man?"

The rest of the world was dead to Derek right then. Everyone was already dead. He'd known this since he jumped through time to try to stop history from repeating itself. No lives were lost just now—none that hadn't already been lost, in his mind. He stood motionless, as if it weren't real. He stared at it as if he was watching a memory play back before his eyes, and if he broke concentration it would vanish.

"Judgement day's here, man! I can't go back to... No way. Fuck that, man. Game over!"

The thing that finally broke Derek out of his trance was the sharp crack of a handgun. Derek didn't turn to look. He didn't want to see his friend lying on the pavement with half his head gone. Instead, he drew his own pistol and held it in the palms of his hands, feeling its heft, considering the weight it could lift from his mind. The only other time in his life he'd thought about taking the easy way out, was the day he'd met the love of his life.

_Jesse._

She'd saved him. She'd been the one shining point of light in a dark cave of nothing but death, suffering, and hopelessness. What was it she'd said? _"She'll be apples,"_ Australian for "It'll be alright." Derek had a hard time believing that now. Everything would not be all right. Everything was about to be terribly, terribly wrong.

He closed his eyes, letting some tears fall to the ground and thought about the days that followed Judgment Day the first time around. It was worse than anything he'd seen in the distant future. People turned on each other, killing over food, killing over women, killing over killing. The machines actually straightened humans out by forcing them work together, but there would still be a couple years of civil warfare, cannibalism, the worst humanity had to offer. _How do you like _them_ apples?_

He opened his eyes and saw that a pool of blood had overtaken the ground he at his feet. Maybe Timms had the right idea. Little Derek and Little Kyle were out there somewhere. They'd fight the good fight, and eventually travel through time themselves. Maybe they would have better luck than he did. Time to hit the reset button. Game over.

He gripped the handle of his pistol and rested his finger on the trigger. Jesse wasn't there to knock some sense into him. She wouldn't inspire him to continue living.


	17. A New Beginning

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Chapter 17 – A New Beginning**

Cameras flashed as the President approached the podium. The usual crowd of loquacious reporters was eerily silent as they awaited his speech.

"December seventh, nineteen forty one. September eleventh, two thousand one. September twenty seventh, two thousand seven. These are the dates of the three largest acts of war and terror on American soil. The first two were beyond our control, but we tempered our resolve, and retaliated against our attackers. We have no such recourse for the third, as our enemy was, unfortunately, ourselves.

"It was thought that we'd created a perfect artificial intelligence. We thought we could put it in control and allow it to think for us. We thought this technology would prove so effective that it would soon lead to cars that drive themselves, and a much more literal interpretation of the word 'autopilot.' We thought all of this would lead to a revolution in technology and make every aspect of our lives easier, safer, and more enjoyable. We were horribly, horribly wrong.

"Some will say that we can't stop progress, and while this is true, we can stop the reckless implementation of it. We must learn from the tragedy that has befallen us. We must never forget our history, or we will be doomed to repeat it.

"The first step in ensuring something of this nature never happens again will be to pass a law which prevents building a weapon system capable of being deployed solely by an artificial intelligence. A human activated interlock will be required for any device that could cause harm to anyone. The next step will be extrapolating this law to a UN resolution.

"Before I officially resign my position as the president of the United States of America, I'd like to take an official moment of silence for the estimated one point two million Americans that lost their life last Thursday."

* * *

Mathew Murch clicked off his TV and sat down at his computer desk. He was eager to get reconnected with the world. He hadn't realized how dependent he was on the internet for news coverage until he was cut off from it for a few days. Phone and cable lines in his neighborhood were unaffected by the bomb, but when the main hub for his ISP was turned into ash, it took a little while before coverage was rerouted. Thank God he had satellite TV, or he would have really been in the dark about what happened. He opened up his chat program window and clicked on his girlfriend in Boston. He typed, "Hi Amy. You home?"

A few seconds later, the video window changed from a small icon of a camera to Amy's face. She seemed to be studying her screen, her eyes wide and darting back and forth. "Matt? Holy crap! Is that you? Are you okay? Are you there?"

"Huh...?" Matt scrunched his eyebrows and tilted his head. "Oh. Whoops. Hang on a sec." His webcam was had fallen off the top of his monitor and was pointing at the mess of wires behind his tower. He reached to fix it. "That's better. Yeah, it's me."

"Oh thank God you're okay, Matt!" Her hands formed a mask over her mouth and nose, and her eyes welled up with tears. After a couple deep, shaky breaths, she said, "After I saw what happened in LA I immediately tried calling you, but the phone lines were down. I emailed you, texted... None of the clan members on WoW had heard from you either. Jesus, Matt, I thought you were..."

It was nice to know that people missed him, but at the same time, seeing Amy so distraught twisted his heart with guilt. "Sorry. Internet's been down, and I feel like I've been living in the 90s again."

She shook her head. "Don't worry about me, Matt. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I was in the sub-basement at work when it happened. My apartment didn't get hit nearly as hard. I've got a couple cracked windows, but that's it. Much better than my work's building. Man. I can't believe that thing's still standing."

"That must have been so terrifying. How close was Zeira Tower to ground zero?"

"I don't know exactly. I think it was under a mile though. The whole place went dark. Not even the emergency lights came on. And there was this rumbling that I thought was an earthquake at first. So I ran up the emergency stairs in the dark and when I got to the ground floor, it looked like some footage I'd seen from nine-eleven. Several nearby buildings had collapsed. There was so much dust and debris." Murch shook his head.

"God, Matt. I can't imagine."

"Neither can I, really. I mean, I was underground when it all happened. It wasn't until I ran up the stairs to my office on the tenth floor that I saw how bad everything really was."

"Wait. You ran up? Instead of out?"

"I know. I wasn't thinking about the possibility of the building collapsing, but..." He took a deep breath. "I wanted to save my friend." He held up the TOK351 chip.

"Oh." She gave a wry grin. "I thought you were going to say you carried some people down ten flights of stairs on your shoulders. Forrest Gump style."

Matt cringed at his own insensitivity toward his coworkers. "Like I said, I wasn't thinking. But in my defense, Cameron was more of a friend to me than any of the people on the tenth floor. And besides, there was no one to save."

"Oh, no. Everyone was dead?"

"No, everyone was gone. Just, swept away. Along with every desk, chair, computer, and garbage can that wasn't bolted down. The entire glass curtain on all four sides of the building was completely shattered and gone, leaving an open-steel structural skeleton of a building. That's maybe why it's still standing." He choked on his words, and struggled to hold himself together. "The pressure wave opened the building up, and the backdraft just sucked everything out like holding a Shop-Vac to a dollhouse."

"I'm so sorry, Matt. At least you recovered Cameron. How did you find her chip anyway if everything was gone?"

"Well, not _everything_ was gone. My desk happened to be right next to a large concrete pillar, so it, along with my computer tower to which she was tethered, was stuck under a pile of other furniture and cubicle wall pieces. After I dug the chip out of the pile of junk, I walked over to the edge of the floor and looked out." Matt pulled off his glasses and wiped his eyes. "Let me tell you, Amy, the images you've seen on the news don't compare. I've looked out that window a thousand times, and seeing that familiar view turned into the landscape of Hell... I wish I could tell you I stood strong and contemplated how lucky I was to be alive, and how fortunate I am that my only local friend was safe and in my pocket. But I didn't. I just sat down and cried."

"Well, I know that when I saw the destruction on TV, all I could think about was 'I hope Matt isn't hurt.' And, not that I was equally worried about it or anything, but I was also hoping the Cameron AI wasn't lost. So I'm glad you're both safe."

Matt frowned. "I hate to break it to you, Amy, but..." He tapped the TOK351 chip against his desk, then flipped it out of his fingers and held his hands up in defeat.

"Aww. Must have been the EMP from the blast, huh?"

"That's my best guess. It pretty much bricked every computer, phone, and friendly, sentient AI in the area."

"Shit, Matt. I know you were more attached to it—her than I was, and even I feel like I just lost a friend. If you weren't three thousand miles away I'd give you the tightest hug of your life."

Matt sat back and thought about that statement. Three Thousand miles away. Was there something wrong with one's social life, when the first person they contact after a tragedy lives on the other side of the continent? This was the communication age and all, but there comes a time when a guy needs actual human interaction. So, what was keeping him in LA now? It wasn't like he had a job tying him down anymore. Maybe it was time for a change. "What if I _wasn't_ three thousand miles away?"

"You're not going to start talking about hyperspace and quantum theory again, are you?"

She was sweet, trying to make him smile. It worked. He grinned. "No. I mean, I've always wanted to visit Boston. I hear it's wicked awesome."

Amy's eyes widened and a big smile came to her face. "Matt! That would be epic! I'll be your personal tour-guide of Boston!"

"How about my personal tour guide of MIT?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Thinking of joining the Ph.D. club in the future?"

Matt shrugged. "One possible future. We'll see if any program related to artificial intelligence research isn't shut down after this mess." He figured AI development would end up being the scapegoat. The anti-technology, tinfoil-hat luddite types would be having an endless field day. "How's your research going since all of this? Any picketers outside your building accusing you of creating Cylons?"

"No, Matt. What do you think this is," she wore a smug grin, "a liberal arts college or something? No, people around here are smart enough to see that the real blame lays the horrible management in the US military. Like, how effing stupid they were for not having a failsafe and..." She huffed and shook her head. "Never mind that right now. You'll definitely get an earful when you come out here."

"Nothing like learning a lesson the extremely hard way. The military will probably go back to using slide-rules for a while as a PR move after this."

Amy rolled her eyes. "Wouldn't surprise me."

* * *

John flicked on the light and tossed his duffel on the floor of the dingy roadside motel room. The dim light from the single lamp near the bed cast the entire room in harsh shadows. A musty odor permeated the room and the carpet had so many stains and discolorations that it almost looked to be an intentional pattern.

Cameron walked past him and surveyed the room, no doubt looking for weak security points, escape routes, and sightlines from the windows. Is this what the rest of his life would be like, living with an overprotective cyborg? "Clear," he heard her say as he stared blankly ahead. Shitty motel rooms, living off the grid, constantly on the run from some phantom threat that would never be built. He couldn't blame Cameron. She was programed to keep him safe, and couldn't afford to accept that there never would be a Skynet, that there never would be another Terminator sent back to hunt him, or that there was no need to be acting like... like his mother.

"Give it a rest, Cameron. It's over. We've won. We're safe." He sat on the edge of the bed.

She stood before him. "No one is ever safe."

John rested his face in his hand. It would never end. She would never let him have a normal life, even though it was perfectly possible now. He was sure Allison would. Maybe not a perfect life, being a single mother and all, but a real, normal, livable life. He looked up at Cameron. She would keep him running until he was old and grey and couldn't run anymore. Then she'd carry him—drag him around like a child with her favorite, worn-out teddy bear. And what would she do when he finally took his last breath? Shut-down? Self terminate? Freeze his brain and wait for the technology to download him into an android body?

She relaxed her posture. "Don't worry, John. I'll keep you as safe as possible."

John looked up from his hand with a scowl. "Just as long as I never leave your sight, never have any friends, and never do anything fun or normal, right?"

"I'm your friend, remember?" A faint and familiar smile crept across her face. Too familiar. It seemed rehearsed. "You love me, John." When she stepped closer, John leaned back.

There was a time in his life—many times in his life—when the thought of roaming the country carefree with a pretty girl by his side was the ultimate fantasy. Somehow this wasn't quite what he had in mind.

Her legs straddled his as her knees pressed into the edge of the bed. John glanced at the door, then back at his assigned bodyguard, startled by the proximity of her face.

Cameron's voice lowered to something just above a whisper. "We'll be together forever."

* * *

Allison sat at a picnic table beneath a pavilion at a rest area along I-75. Rain came down in sheets as she idly ate her vending-machine sandwich. Maybe driving to Florida during monsoon season wasn't such a great idea after all. It had been raining since she crossed the border from Mississippi, and at a couple points she could barely see the car in front of her.

The leash she had wrapped around her hand suddenly tensioned and yanked her arm. Lucy tugged against her restraints and bounced on her hind legs as another woman with a small dog approached.

"Lucy! Sit!" Allison gave an apologetic smile to the woman. "Sorry. She's still just a puppy and gets excited."

She waived Allison off. "Don't worry about it." She collapsed her umbrella and shook the water off of it. "What's her name?"

"Lucy."

The two dogs sniffed each other. "Well, looks like Lucy is getting along with Hercules."

Allison snorted and grinned. "Big name for such a small dog."

"Yeah, that's what I get for letting my ten year old son name him." She looked over her shoulder at her minivan.

Allison eyed the vehicle. A young boy in the passenger seat was looking down at something in his lap—probably some sort of video game—when an object thrown from the back seat hit him in the head. He immediately turned around and started squabbling what she assumed to be a sibling. What she didn't see, was a father. Allison looked back at the woman. Her hair was frazzled and she rubbed her forehead with her eyes closed, taking deep, slow breaths.

Was this a glimpse into Allison's own future? Strung out from the hardships of being a single mother? Sarah did it, and she had Judgment Day to worry about. This woman was doing it. There was no reason for Allison to fail. A small chunk of that fear crumbled and fell off.

Allison noticed the Colorado plates on the minivan. "Let me guess, family road trip to Disney World?"

The woman smiled and nodded. "Good call. We almost didn't go." Her smile faded. "After what happened in Los Angeles, I don't really feel good going on a vacation. But the kids would have been crushed. They've been looking forward to it for months, and my daughter's too young to understand how bad of a tragedy it really was." She shook her head and sighed. "What about you? Traveling for business, or pleasure?"

"Necessity." Allison picked at her nails without looking up. "I need to get as far away from LA as possible. There's nothing left for me there."

The woman put her hand to her mouth. "I'm so sorry."

"Things could be worse." She took another bite of her sandwich. _A lot worse._

"You have a strong attitude, miss. Way to stay positive."

The rain had slowed from a torrential downpour to a light drizzle, and the sun even peeked through the clouds. The woman strapped her umbrella closed and stepped out onto the grass. "I suppose I should get back on the road. Driving should be a little smoother now. Looks like the storm's finally passing."

Allison nodded. "I think the worst is behind us."


	18. Epilogue

**Doomed to Repeat It**

**Epilogue **

SHANGHAI, CHINA – 2014

Mei Tseng sat at a table at an outdoor café. It was the first quiet moment she'd had to herself in what seemed like weeks.

A waitress brought out a cup of steaming tea and set it in front of her. Mei nodded her head and smiled. "Xièxiè." She picked up the hot beverage with a gloved hand and sipped it. Perhaps it was a bit early in the season to be sitting outside, but the tea warmed her inside. The sun also felt nice on her fair skin as she leaned back and closed her eyes.

She let the ambient sound of the street consume her: diesel powered busses, the mag-lev train overhead, squeaking bicycles. Hearing everyone else rushing to be somewhere made her appreciate her moment of relaxation that much more.

As she sat quietly letting the world pass her by, she heard one, fairly heavy set of footsteps approaching her. "Mei Tseng?"

Who could be bothering her? All she wanted was to have a half-hour alone to enjoy her tea. Without opening her eyes, she sighed and responded, "Shì ma?" Then, she heard a distinctive metallic double-clink.

When she opened her eyes, she was looking down the barrel of a large caliber handgun. Before she could react, a loud boom made her jump in her seat and let out a sharp scream. She'd never been shot before, but she knew that even if her body was in shock, she should still feel _something._

Confusion set in when the man pointing a gun at her staggered back, like he'd been punched by some invisible force. Another boom rang out and she realized the sound was coming from behind her. She whipped her head around and saw a man in a trench coat holding a long gun at his hip. He fired three more times, then dropped his gun and took off in a full sprint toward the other man, who was now several feet back and struggling to regain his balance. Why wasn't he on the ground bleeding? Why was he threatening to shoot her? Why wasn't she running away?

She wanted to get up and run, but she couldn't look away as the second man slammed his body into the other, much larger man, and knocked him into the street right in front of a passing bus.

Mei anticipated a dull thud as the bus contacted the large man, but the impact had the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass as if the bus had hit another car.

Seeing the man pinned under the front tire and pushing with his arms to free himself finally knocked Mei out of her trance. How was he still moving at all? Whatever the explanation, she didn't want to stick around to find out. Her chair screeched along the concrete as she shoved it back and stood up to run.

In her haste, she caught her foot on the leg of the chair, and tripped. On her way to the ground, Mei's elbow contacted another chair, sending a sharp pain up her arm. She lay on her side clutching her elbow, and hissing through her teeth at the pain. She attempted to bottle up the pain and get back on her feet. She had to.

When she turned herself over to get up, the trench coat wearing man was standing above her. He extended a hand to her, and said between heavy breaths, "Rúguǒ nǐ gēn wǒ lái xiǎng zhù."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

**Well, it's finally done. I hope you enjoyed reading my story. **

**Hopefully I didn't butcher the Chinese language too much in this epilogue. If I did, blame Google translator, not me. :)  
**

**Big thanks to JMHthe3rd, my beta-reader, who has been a big help not only in keeping the story ironed out, but also in helping me improve my writing in general. **

**As always, I appreciate anyone who takes the time to write a review of what I've written. I'm no stranger to criticism, and considering how this story ended, I've got my flame-suit zipped up. **


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